Spending Time Alone
I live another life between raised garden rows, meditating on what worries me the most—feeling anxious about the seedlings that I’ve upended from their plug trays, pushing them head first into the palm of my hand, where I take a moment to study their good health, before I shove them into dirt that’s expansive as it is uncertain—a space where I imagine safety is being somewhere: tomatoes belong here—eggplants over there—and, in-between—bright, ruffled marigolds, guarding the future from an army of beetles, no bigger than poppy seeds, that seemingly ingest everything when no one’s looking.
From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa
M.J.’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.
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