The Dirt in the Garden

I like seeing the dirt in the garden.
It reminds me how the zucchini blossoms grow,
from the flat little seeds I wedged into the soft, warm dirt,
little green swirls emerged, twirling until they poked their ends
above the surface, seeking that warm light.
Then swirls thickened, grew thorns, unfurled giant wedge-shaped leaves.
Then the tiniest bump peeked out from a stalk, and I swear,
the next day it was the size of my thumb, green with yellow spreading from the end
the way water soaks into fabric.
And the next day, it opens, fuzzy center with curly petals.
We know the rest, the blossom grows outward, the zucchini pushing
it away from the earth, fattening, fattening, fattening.
The blossom tumbles, wilted and browning, moldering into the dirt,
becoming the plant's fertilizer.

So isn't that just like life?
I tend the dirt, it grows a plant,
beautiful and lovely, I harvest the fruit,
the blossoms fall, wilting, moldering,
and it replenishes the dirt, fuels the passion,
I grow,
without the dirt I cannot.
I grow.