Not one of the onions came up.
Not one. Just a small plot of grass
at the end of the garden where
the long green spears should be.
Of course I was disappointed.
Of course I’d imagined already
my drawers full of red bulbs
and golden shallots, how I would
slice into their pungencies all winter, all spring.
Nothing. And so today, after ripping
the soil again, and again, my son
and I planted there dahlias and marigolds,
white cosmos and pink portulacas,
and some golden flower we could
not pronounce. There will be
no harvest here come fall, but
in the meantime, petals and blossoms,
petals and opening petals and petals
and opening blooms. Some afternoons
we kneel in the dirt, and all we know
is pleasure and salt alchemy of sweat.
Regret finds no place to take root,
and what seemed to be loss
is shown for what it is. Which is loss.
But. And. In the distance,
the thunder grumbles, and in the
garden the sky overhead is blue,
and you almost find yourself wishing
the rain would come and find you.