My Calmly Roaring 20s

Poem Seven: Raising Gaia

I was picked out by my parents.

Not unlike the Roma tomatoes they'd pluck,

The potatoes they'd unearth,

Strawberries they'd coax from their stems.

Fieldworkers are the Earth's caretakers, after all.

Futile to fight over fertile land

-once yours, twice claimed after birth.

I became the garden of their dreams;

They came ready with nourishing praises

And a plow to rip into me,

Seeds without labels were spread into the fertile wounds.

Surely profitable, after years of investments,

No doubt plenty of gifts for the neighbors and family.

Though not without its season of weeds

-no fruits, vegetables, trees to reach toward the sky on

Or a sapling of a promise...

Those will come out but they'll sprout back by next year,

I can't pick out from where they root.

~RaspberryRiddle