🐌 Our Garden Plot

It was a dry, dead patch of landWhere even the pebbles shriveledBeneath the scorching sunBut you said we could make it growAnything, something, everything You said it wouldn’t be too hardTo dig a well, and carve a canalTo install vapor towers and solar shieldsOn our hands, blisters formed and burst In mockery of your boastEvery night our bones achedSkin caked with sweat and dirtWe lay cradled in a gentle embraceQuietly dreading the next plagueThat would decimate our cropWhen that first sapling producedIts first small pear, no larger than my palmYou sliced it like a christmas hamLike we were starving peasantsWe toasted “To us and our harvest” My blisters are now callousesThe canal flows like a riverWater turbines hum with electric lifeVapor machines draw dewAcross that once dry, dead patch of landI wish you could see it nowNo longer a sapling, our first tree’s roots Reach deep around where you sleep Still cradled in a gentle embraceWe remain in this place we made Andrew Maust is a…