Green Thumb

sorta

Hi!

Here’s a poem.

unexpected joy : cucumber. 

unexpected.
not that it is
(it was planted)
but that it 
persists.

no water
for the time 
it takes
to fly both ways
across the Atlantic
and touch the
Eiffel Tower.

outlived
the sorrowful
basil that
was supposed to 
complement the
lamentable 
tomato plant.

cucumber.
prickled thin vine.
oversized jagged leaves.
tiny whisps of reaching
reachlings (I’m sure 
these have real names,
but no one has introduced us,
formally)
that grasp hold of solid 
objects with twirls of time
so to suspend its fruit
off the ground.

joy.
the flower,
not in itself
(the flower is a mediocre
yellow thing
that resembles honeysuckle),
but in its transformation
into fruit.

joy in the stretch.
joy in the fuzzy
caterpillar projection
post pollination.
joy in the ugly
funk awkward
teenage stage
of the fruit.
joy that that happens.

the transitional stage 
of a cucumber
is punk rock blaring
& rebelling against 
deodorant at the 
peak of primal odor–
it looks like a bug
attacking the plant,
like the flower ate
something and 
the thing it ate
is getting its revenge.

but then,
the petals fall,
the spiky fuzz
stretches out
and becomes smooth,
deep green,
and, day by day,
the cucumber becomes
jazz.


then you pick it.

in wordy wordiness,

Walter