Russell Sprouts

For a long time, I thought that the sprouts

had the name of my father: Russell.

That was the sound of someone

moving in the vegetable garden.

Because one night he laid himself down in the dirt

and went to sleep. From the places where his eyes were

and mouth, hands, and feet

pale green plants sprouted, warm and bitter,

bearing his name: Russell.

If anyone could lie so still under soil

so as not to upset

the new sprouts from growing,

naturally, it was him – it was only him, the quietest one,

upon whom they felt

at home. When morning came

he brushed soil from his hair and swam

a silent length, backstroke,

in the pool: early light

enfolding his skin

in leaves of palest green. Before we woke

he was up and over the window ledge

in a perfect Olympian vault

and through the curtains, with barely a rustle.

Ashleigh says:

My first poem ever published was in the School Journal in 1992. I think I was eight? Does that count? It was called "Winter and Spring" and was pretty terrible.

Some how I doubt it Ashleigh!

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