Dormant Varieties

I stepped out for the mail key I dropped in the dirt,

two days of recycled air finally breaking my chest.

The overgrown lawn felt like a physical hurt,

a lush, green pressure that wouldn't let me rest.

Under the soft blades, a dry weed caught the arch,

a sharp, hidden prickle that made my toes curl.

I stood there thinking of the coming dry march,

of quitting the firm and letting the maps unfurl.

It’s easier to focus on the dampness between the toes

than the letter I’m holding about the regional lead.

Everything grows in the dark, I suppose,

even the quiet, sharp things that make the heart bleed.