Seed Logic

The head of it is heavy as a wet fist now,

bowing toward the mud and the frozen roots.

It doesn't remember the bright, yellow vow

it made to the sun in its green, leafy boots.

I grab the stalk and it snaps like a bone,

blackened and hollow and rough to the touch.

It’s better this way, being left all alone,

without having to look like it matters too much.

The seeds spill out like a handful of grit,

gray-striped gravel on the palm of my glove.

There’s no golden glory remaining in it,

just the hard, dry facts of a difficult love.