I can’t help but think of our ancient parents
contending with their garden, their hands
scarred and calloused from work, their brows
slick with perspiration, every speck of skin
hardened with grime from hundreds of years
of toiling, of watching, of waiting, all to find
barren branches sagging only with failure,
year after year, with no holy water to moisten
their roots, until finally ruby fruits appeared
like gems on their limbs, and upon plucking
one and ripping it apart with weathered hands,
there were seeds more numerous than stars
spilling outwards, oozing red like shed blood,
and the pleasing thought: I made this myself.
Based in Modesto, California, Matthew Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dewdrop, pacificREVIEW, Deep Wild Journal, Song of the San Joaquin, and Eunonia Review, among others.
I might feel awe, or offer thanks rather than think “I made it myself”. Otherwise, a lovely poem.