My Father’s Seed

by Mark Melnicove

All day in the garden I looked
for a spot to plant
that seed my father gave

me without saying what
it was.  A curious pip,
not speaking, it nearly split

open before touching ground
and slipping in for a restless
germination.  I thought I might

see my father again,
that he might check up on me
or the embryo, but his gift

was clearly a farewell
gesture, leaving me watering
a whisper of a rumble in soil.