Radishes in Childhood
Ellen Rachlin

My neighbor has no children;
she finds things to do.
No one at my house misses me.
This afternoon we plant radish seeds
between her cold-frame box
and the cellar door.
We dig up dots of earth
and crush them into powder.

Will the seeds disappear and never grow?
Seeds need rain, but I'm afraid
of rain when it rattles
my attic bedroom window
and lands just short of me.
It seems okay to do without rain,
but she explains rain matters
and how to make do
with what you have
as you grow.

© Copyright 2004 by Ellen Rachlin
originally appeared in Waiting for Here, Finishing Line Press, 2004

Ellen Rachlin's poems have appeared in various literary journals. She lives in New York City, works in finance and is Treasurer of the Poetry Society of America.