The seeds in the packet were so tiny and dry,
all fallen into the bottom fold like blue grit—
it was hard to believe that even one would sprout—
so I planted them all in the window box. Why
not? What was there to lose? Soon, a multitude
of minute green heads emerged from the damp soil,
pushing every day toward the light, toiling
with what came to seem heartbreaking certitude,
since every day, for the good of those final four
plants that would need room to fully mature,
I plucked the living threads out like a grim reaper
in training, each uprooting feeling more
brutal than the last, each frail sprout between
my finger and thumb a dumb reproach.