Heave

The porch is sagging toward the garden bed

and the landlord hasn't called me back in weeks.

I’m tripping on the stone steps, seeing red,

listening to the way the wood-rot squeaks.

But near the edge, a yellow head has broke

through a crack I thought was far too tight.

It’s a slow-motion, heavy-lifting stroke,

pushing a pound of concrete toward the light.

The jagged edge is rising every day,

forced up by a stem that’s soft and green.

The stone is finally giving way

to the hardest life I’ve ever seen.