We wished for you a greenhouse 

gardener’s plan. His skillful hands. 

Seeds laid down in planting beds 

centuries old; a loyal water drip; 

roots taking hold; green tendrils 

taking to the gardener’s light. 

Stems kept alive – acacias, 

myrtle. An impenetrable inside. 

 

And not this grieving season.

 

We wished for you a clear domed sky, 

light thermal winds to thaw your 

nestling trim, plump up your chalky 

skin. An angel to release your brittle 

frame from hissing tubes; smooth 

your two-week-old, old man’s head; 

anoint you with a name – before you 

are one of five listed: unnamed dead.

 

And not this killing season.

 

We wished for you ladders propped 

against shimmering olive trees. A long-

limbed boy gingerly plucking, shaking 

the seeds. In a blur of boy and twigs, 

a laurel for your head: silver-green leaves. 

For certain harvest, sheets of netting below. 

Certain soap; certain oil, the essence

of citrus, the golden-green glow.

 

And not this hungering season.