the counterintuitiveness of horticulture

the seeds
of death
have already been planted.

the farmers
have cultivated us
in strains
of tears and empty bottles
that make
even the strongest growth
wilt
underneath the vacuum
of their shadow.

we are brought here,
miraculously empty,
fed on light
and the purity of liquids.

we grow,
open,
not even aware
of the meaning of trust.

something happens.

a farmer forgets.
a farmer has nothing left
but
contaminated water.

a farmer will slit you
for nothing more than seed,
and the only thing left to grow
is
the genetics of memory
and hope,
that the next field
is tilled
with just a little more light.