Unplanted

The window box was a box of weeds

so I dug my fingers into the mess.

I don't have the patience for planting seeds

or the hope for a green success.

I grabbed a fistful of the potting soil,

cold and heavy against the palm.

It felt like a damp and gritty coil

in a moment of stupid calm.

Black dirt trapped under a jagged nail,

and the smell of the earth was too real.

I let it fall over the porch's rail

to see how the nothing would feel.