Seeds for Poetic Bloomings


By winter,
we pitched pennies
at the wall.
By summer,
we ate watermelon,
sat cross-legged,
and spat seeds
at the compost pile.

Watermelons grew
like weeds
in our garden.

Years ago,
a seed
was planted
in my head

that occasional hunger
was food
for the soul,

and poverty
was wealth.

I was still a wolf
howling at the door.

for Poetic Bloomings “Planting a Seed”   © Misky 2020

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