Grow Food Eat

We’re growing watercress on Sunday afternoon,
dad breaking eggs for eggshells,
yolk and white saved for later, an omelette
the only recipe he knows.
I take the shells and fill them
with clouds stolen from the bathroom,
still holding the lavender scent of mum’s soaps and skin.
With each soft word, pause, and touch,
we grow together, gently,
as if on cotton wool.

He crouches to let me sprinkle seeds
then stands to put our project on the shelf, sunny
and just out of reach.