(Inspired by the Writer's Digest Poem-a-Day prompt for April 18, to do an "I am" poem, as detailed here: http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2013-april-pad-challenge-day-18)
Not ready to make an appearance
above earth, just yet,
I rest in still frozen soil
six, eight, ten inches below.
Above me is grass, weeds,
a volunteer onion from the past fall,
old stalks that were not cut back,
some spinach leaves,
volunteers, too.
A collection of fine green mint-shaped leaves
captivates the digger and planter, and weeder and picker's attentions.
Is it I,
the asparagus,
pre-spear,
they wonder.
Google search concludes
it is not.
He worries that I didn't survive.
She worries, too, but tries to stay
optimistic.
It wasn't her blood, sweat, and tears
that got me planted as a crown a year ago;
it was his.
It wasn't his inability to keep up with the weeds, thorns, and fears
that crowded my growing bed
from June through October;
it was hers.
He fears he killed me.
She says it's okay,
but she's sure I am alive.
Like her, I run late,
but am reliable in the long run.
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