It is still not warm enough outdoors,
but inside, where it is warm,
right by the water heater,
with fluorescent bulbs for a light source,
tiny tufts of tomatoes spring forth from their little eggshell homes,
their microscopic scaffolding sewing themselves from
the carbon in the air that I am expelling at them each time I enter their room,
and the nutrients in the compost soil mix I have sowed them in,
in egg cartons for a partitioning between them.
Now sage and carrots and cabbage seeds
are also tilled into the dirt by the clusterful and covered,
wettened by water, willed into growth from out their slumber,
sleeping seedlings awoken by the warmth of the soil in the light,
drying around them as they drink deeply,
stretching stems and the smallest suggestions of leaves
DNA unfurling nucleotides to express discrepancies between:
black cherry and tangerine heirloom tomatoes, basil, and beets, and cauliflower,
and fish and birds and apes,
despite the near identical commonality of code in every living thing on this planet.
Outside, last season’s perennials look wilted and worn from the winter,
they have survived, if barely,
lemongrass hacked for its dry leaves, its’ buzz cut still not coming in,
rosemary dried on the vine and waiting to be shaved off before awakening,
the strawberry plant, a few of its’ offshoots still present, if a bit defoliated in the
suddenness of winter’s frosty death knell in 2017,
where everything that began to bloom was covered in the cold winds of Canada
rushing south and blanketing the eastern seaboard –
wherein half the cherry trees in D.C. withered,
perhaps partially to the heartbreak of a nation that holds its seat of power there,
too embarrassed to even blush for the travesty.
But inside – my little lab of life labors on, oblivious,
a little microme making the most of it.