A Garden

We were born with the harvest on our lips,
all the seeds we needed stitched into our fingertips.
Instead of being grateful, we pushed heaven past its limit
searching for a paradise despite it being given
to us freely. And after all this digging, we stared at the mounds
our eyes aiming at the sky from the hole we dug ourselves,
and in this passing moment, it just seems so fitting how
the hands that dug into the earth will try to climb their way out,
and we can, if we don't suffocate from all the weight
of the plagues that we create, centuries of past mistakes,
a history of ending life as mindless entertainment
allergic to forbidden fruit, but we had to taste it.
And as the juice is spilling out underneath our gaping mouths
every single seed is scattering into the lines we plowed.
I can't promise things will change. All that I can say
is there's evidence of thriving life peaking over all the graves.

Mother, love me dearly.
I know I hurt you so.
I tore your skin apart.
But I can't promise things will change.
I can't promise things will change.