Too much spring rain.
The gutters burst
with hundreds of miniature maples.
They have germinated
in their own rotting pods
and stretch their leaves
to the sun. Yank them out,
I tell my husband,
before the neighbors talk.
He climbs a ladder,
cuts the stems loose
with a trowel.
Outside Beijing, the mother
of our next child
digs all day, hair sweeping
the fine soil where black seeds
roll from her fingers.
More drought, they warn,
but she plants anyway,
for you never know
when a storm will hit.
Today, row markers and dirt.
Tomorrow, plump cabbages
glistening on the table.
—Tania Runyan, from Simple Weight, FutureCycle Press