Holly Karapetkova

Poems

Planting

My daughter and I are planting seeds. 

It’s early spring, 

the long Covid winter behind us, 

more uncertainty ahead.

We’ve stopped numbering our griefs,

started holding tighter

to the loved ones still with us.

I dig small holes with my fingers

and my daughter drops in seeds,

then we both smooth the dirt on top. 

When she was younger she worried

when the seeds disappeared,

would try to dig them up again

to make sure they were okay. 

Now she’s older, patient,

knows to leave them alone, 

to water them and wait. 

Every day she goes out with the watering can to check

and one afternoon about a week later

she’s jumping by the window, 

motioning for me to come outside and see 

the small green sprouts that will become lettuce or peas. 

Wow, she whispers, 

and because her wonder is contagious 

I allow myself to be amazed, too, 

at how the earth keeps going,

putting forth its tiny seeds 

after every long winter

having faith

some of them will dig in roots and grow.

In the first breath of spring I remember

How suddenly life returns:
the sun shifts from behind a cloud
and the sky fills with blue.

The earth has not forgotten us.
It has not forgotten itself.
Ice melts from the branches,
buds push their way forth to blossom, 
bright colors of early spring
redbuds and weeping cherries
reflecting the afternoon light.

In a week the flowers will be gone, 
falling from limbs like heavy snow,
a reminder of how fragile the balance,

our human weight tipping the scales
as the clock ticks on Union Square:
what is needed of us now

to keep the seasons in check
the deep green leaves of summer
and gold of autumn
so that life can go on reimagining itself
healing itself after every long winter
healing us. 
What will we care for if not this?

The forest sprouts of its own volition

Here are sky water roots

Here are worms pushing through dirt

branches moving       toward sunlight

bird feet on bark a torrent of spiders

stammering rutted broken blossoming

This is nothing to fear     

Fear hands on a paper that says what can be owned 

that says a forest is paper       

 is someone’s property

That says you can possess what you don’t understand

Holly Karapetkova, Poet Laureate of Arlngton County is the author of two books of poetry, Words We Might One Day Say, winner of the 2010 Washington Writers’ Publishing House Poetry Award, and Towline, winner of the 2016 Vern Rutsala Poetry Contest from Cloudbank Books. Her current manuscript projects, Still Life With White and Planter’s Wife grapple with the deep wounds left by our history of racism, slavery, and environmental destruction. She is also the author of over 20 books for children.

Website: karapetkova.com
Twitter: @hollykarapetkov
LinkedIn: linkedin.com/in/holly-karapetkova-432b6724