Seed Coat 5: gray with embroidery
A family of lavender seedlings appears on my kitchen counter, an early Mother’s Day gift. What kind of light is possible on the TV stand? We forget garden tools outside in the rain—floating in my son’s rusty toy wagon. At 35, I start to wonder about my need to always be checking, my expectation of the worst. Seeds that don’t sprout. Secret poems in a drawer fastened with secondhand twine á la Emily Dickinson.// Or am I being dramatic?/ The house dark except for a desk lamp. We left our seed coats inside or we clung to them, not ready to face the damp spring. When the sun returns, the seed coats nod okay. //A thin trail of green emerging in these unsafe/safe conditions. More and more I have trouble choosing just one word. More and more I have trouble letting go, not anticipating all of the possible outcomes.
Seed Coat 6: neon green
A plant can be a tree you watch horizontally on the sofa at 3 p.m. For a moment, under scarlet wool blanket and gray-streaked clouds I feel protected. A white fiber floats above me & then drifts down to the blanket. I have a sudden image of turning to dust// a feeling of regret from not brushing the debris aside. I think brittle, cobwebbed, a thin layer. Later the [cyber]clouds have pastel pink edges. Sunset or smog?
From the window, where I eat store bought shortbread cookies, the field is neon green. Every Italian fashion house could cinematize against this backdrop of grazing cows, these lilacs near the house/ & I’d offer a container of indulgent Greek yogurt.
I’m writing again, but I also worry that the pages will fall from this notebook and I’ll be left with nothing but thistles.
Emilie Lindemann is an associate professor of English at Silver Lake College of the Holy Family and the author of mother-mailbox (Misty Publications, 2016), as well as several chapbooks, including Small Adult Trees/Small Adulteries from dancing girl press. She loves lavender, coffee, and spending time with family and friends outdoors.