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Where Your Roots Grow
I planted a new mom last week. 
Used the ashes left over from the old one, 
plus a little love, blood, tears. 
The backyard gets enough rain and sun, 
I figured it would only take a year or two to 
harvest her. 
      I was wrong.

My new mom's hair popped up 
through the dirt within a few hours. 
Still brown. Still curly, 
but thicker than I remembered. 
Lacking the gray that accumulates 
      in life.

The next day, a forehead poked up. 
Not as lined as the original, but 
this mom hadn't been through nearly as much 
- like raising five kids 
- like having cancer 
- like dying. 
      Those'll all leave lines.

I checked in that night and saw 
closed eyelids thick with dark lashes, 
and the beginning of a nose bridge. 
Within two days, my new mom had 
      a full face. 

Five days in, she was a head, neck, and torso, 
eyes, ears, mouth still closed tight. 
I began to worry she would never be truly 
alive, but figured I could wait longer 
      see what the legs would bring.

My new mom's legs came in by day six
with a nice set of new feet, 
and there I was in the backyard, 
dusting earth off my 
      brand new mother. 

I hugged her off the roots and 
gave her a cup of coffee. 
That always did wake her up. 
She opened her eyes
      and smiled.

Her front tooth 
coffee-browned and thread split gone from
      her new mouth.

Next week, I'm planting grandpa.
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