I recall my cultivation.
The gardeners: former lovers,
friends, moving lecturers
for a semester or two.

My soil the life through which I walk,
roots taking and not taking,
light and water passing to me
from books and songs and
and movies sometimes,
poetry stirring petals,
blooming and resting
as seasons require.

The growth is ongoing,
the process on-growing.
Keep it up, seedling.