Planting at Night

by Thomas Laboucan-Avirom

And you would take me out at night to the garden.
You planted the seeds you loved most then.
You said the moonlight was best.
That the soil was gentle when asleep.
(I still can’t remember if you said “soil” or “soul”).
That the worms sang their song most then,
and the stars danced seeds up into being.
 
Your hands were illuminated by moonlight,
and there was a lone crickets serenade.
Your eyes shimmered when you softly said to me:
“Seeds and saplings are like all things,
and have to be handled slow and right…
For this comes our gentle moon tonight.”
 
I never knew till much later, that I was a seed.