Credo
It’s early summer, everything running to green,
and the sun has dipped its brush in gilt: coreopsis,
black-eyed Susans, Stella d’Oro lilies. At night,
the cool moon throws a silver net over
the darkened yard. You can till the earth,
hoe the rows, but each seed is an act of belief
that somehow in the dark something
is happening: seeds splitting their husks,
softened by rain and spray from the hose,
then sending up pale shoots, periscopes
searching for light. Two leaves, four leaves,
and suddenly: a vine. Which has a mind
of its own, trellising up the tomatoes,
smothering the beans. Remove the coils
used for a foothold, place it in the space
between rows, so it can grow longer, greener
every day. Nobody ever sees this happen;
we take it on faith. Next comes little lemon stars,
then small green globes, which swell, fill,
fueled by the sun. The calendar turns to August,
days ripen, each one more golden than the next.
Nothing the gardener does can make this happen.
One morning, when the leaves are slick with dew,
you go out to check and realize every rib
is yellow, the netting is even, webbed with gold,
and that which has held fast throughout this long
season is ready to slip, fill your hands with its heft,
fill your bowl with roundness, and soon, nestled
in the boat of your spoon, the sun’s longing
exploding on your tongue.
Barbara Crooker is a poetry editor for Italian-Americana, and author of twelve chapbooks and nine full-length books of poetry. Read more.
“Credo” was previously published in The MacGuffin.