Watermelon Vine / by Laura M Kaminski
in memory of my father, Jerrell H Mathison
I planted watermelons in the garden
along the path where once my father
walked, content and curious, sampling
the growing greens and spicy peppers.
Now vines trail through every patch
and plot, touch fence-wires, investigate
tomatoes, marigolds, green onions, extend
tendrils, browsing as they journey.
In the morning mist, the wide leaves
stretch like fingered hands, palms cupped
to catch the raindrops. Blossoms take
their colors straight from the inks of dawn.
I sit among them holding up the last unplanted seed,
shiny black and oval, try to see in it the stencil
for the vine, try to see in the daughter
something patterned like the father.
–Laura M Kaminski
(This poem is also included in the collection last penny the sun.)