SEED
I remember when after the death of your daughter and your husband
you filled tin pots and burnt pans with earth,
also rickety drawers, rickety suitcases, Moroccan teapots,
toolboxes, toy chests
if you could, you would have made the bed on which they died sprout
but the bed remained – to you
you filled with soil: moist, fertile, loose
anything you could find
planted:
houseleek, basil, chives, moss-rose, summer savory, lemon balm, mint, oregano
everything that could sprout grew as if in the middle of a radioactive zone
you told me the wisdom of the earth
quietly and reverently as if you were reading from famous old records
each one began with the words:
a man from Herzegovina once told me
the land should be watered in the evening in the spring
and in the morning in the summer because it gets too hot during the day
hot peppers should have their heads in the sun and their feet in the water
chives are sown in small houses, basil is not sprinkled with soil
how and when to plant – you taught me
but you didn’t explain to me that you were shining and shining
because you couldn’t bear what was left in the house:
empty and lifeless
it insulted you, haunted you, and hurt you
every tiny seed unsown