This Year

I plant seeds even though nothing ever grows, it’s hope that I carry in my hands, planting rows of green and yellow squash, collards, and tiny hard peas, marking the burials with rolled up seed packets stuck in the fence that will unravel with the first hard rain so I won’t know what anything is unless it bears fruit, otherwise the graves will be anonymous, just imaginings I had months before, nameless then and still, unless this year is different, which it could be since everything is upheaved and nothing is the same, even hope.