And I say sorry to

the plant, whose dirt is dry

with fissures small and narrow, desiring the fuse;

the trash in the wind

flyaways from the bin, unsecured and forgotten

its contents unmarried and small, puffing around the yard

and landing in the dry grass and weeds, for which I am also sorry.

The zucchini, ahh, the zucchini;

giant boats of emerald, shipwrecked atop compost,

bunkered soldiers for seeds.

Then, the dinosaur feet of chickens

pecking at the door, cornered away from the sun

scratching at somber grain.

Finally, I say sorry for the food

not yet placed on the table, not yet made.

There are no delicate bowls passed around, 

no fingers touching in the exchange.

And this is the way it will stay;

I will be sorry until the plant, whose dirt is dry,

soaks up the water from the invitation of my hands,

and we can gather at the table once more.