I dug, I broke ground, through clay littered with rocks
upon rocks. The metallic ring of the shovel hitting stone
rung up my arms with the same aching vibration of a taut
violin string plucked. From my fingertips the smallest seeds
scattered and tamped. Morning and night, weighted down
with water jugs that smacked against my thighs and sloshed
over the brim, I watered the soil, then stared hard, back bent
like a peasant in Miller’s painting, “The Gleaners,”
searching for green growth. Once started, I couldn’t stop
watching, the grass trampled by my trek from front door
to garden, once, twice, three times a day. Growth,
even measured in centimeters, is captivating like that,
knowing that what you have set into place will take root,
ripple out, whether you are there to bear witness or not.
Shauna Shiff is an English teacher in Virginia, a mother, wife and textiles artist. Her poems can be found in Stoneboat Literary Journal, River and South Review, Cold Mountain Review, Green Ink Poetry, Cola and upcoming in others. In 2022, she was nominated for Best of the Net.
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