I look for the seeds that I
threw in handfuls
at the base of the thorns
and weeds that haven't
been yet pulled out. They gleam
hard shells. Ellipses of
the forthcoming.

They sit exposed atop
stone hard soil
with hefty leaves as
protective suffocation
and tough shelled insects for company.
I only planted them earlier today.
The beady pupils stare, not
yet grown to blink.

Why do you not grow?
Do you need watered?
More shade?
A safer place to rest?
Why do you not grow?

The thorns are deep red and
mossy with dark fertile green
as thick as my bone
thin wrists.

They grow descending
in droops, heavy
taunting black pearls.
Definitely June. Nearly July.