My father planted row on row,
straight furrows where the wheat would grow
nourished by the winter snow.
He knew the how of planting, and when.
He’d watch for all the signs and then
plant his yearly crops again.
Though farming’s in my family tree,
the seeds I plant are furrow-free.
I scatter seeds, then let them be.
Fanned out by an erratic hand,
they grow wherever they may land,
or thirst and wither where they stand.
If planting were a matter of need––
if I’d a family to feed,
of course, I’d plow and water and weed.
But as it is, the mystery
of what might grow means more to me
than the science of agronomy.
And though he worked from dawn to dark,
Dad’s life was anything but stark.
He paused to watch the meadowlark
and trace its flight from post to limb.
He watched the clouds catch light, then dim––
and a single drop course down one stem.
The NaPoWriMo prompt today had to do with planting a garden.