Replanting

One patch of grass refuses to grow, 

after several layers of high grade topsoil, 

and many attempts with various kinds of seed. 

Sun, shade, sun and shade. 

The kind with fertilizer built in, the rough green stuff too. 

The yard was completely dug up two years ago

to put in a new run-off pipe and main line. 

The gorge could hold one hundred dead men, 

the dirt was piled ten feet high in my front yard. 

People stopped their cars to stare. 

Now, the water is out of my basement, 

the yard has regained it plumb, 

you can barely discern the trauma. 

And it all seems worth it, 

except for this patch which does not thrive. 

Today, as I feel the yellow belly of rage

and a monster jealousy within me, 

today, as I again wander backwards, 

my eyes still welling with tears, 

feeling the sour swell of being alone,

I wonder if this patch is the part of me 

that cannot, will not, attempts not to flourish -

if I cling to some part of this thing I will never again know. 

No matter how many times my hurt is tilled 

and reseeded, part of me rejects the notion to grow. 

And yet, I bike to the Heights Garden Center, 

buy the best organic mix this time. 

I rake the topsoil with a sturdy rake. 

Toss the kernels onto the brown,

then I begin, watering the hope once again.