It may have been too late to plant the tomatoes. Regardless,
yours is not the greenest thumb. And perhaps the idea to build
a tiny library in the front yard, where books could
come and go, is fashioned less from skill and good lumber
than your unflagging enchantment with how words travel.
There was the threat of frost last night, but stubborn as ever,
you pushed those seedlings in. Already, you are dreaming of that first
shelf, and what you will put there to be taken by whoever needs it.
You feel it in your mouth, summer at its apex, and this sweetness
drives your fingers in the dirt. Something will grow here. Something.