praying for rain

Perhaps the seedlings were better off inside,

Really. She's never sure what's best for them,

All down the years trying peat pots, blocks,

Yanking down flats from storage, penciling markers,

Ingratiating herself with baked soils,

Now trying perlite, vermiculite, moss,

Getting out lamps and heaters, rotating flats,



Fighting intruding snails, mice and rats

Or even knotweed, and bindweed

Running its tendrils up through brick.



Right now, she wishes she hadn't hurried.

All her helpless babies in cracked clay!

If it doesn't rain tonight, she tells herself,

Never again shall I call April May.