I miss the crisp crunch of peas,

flooding the tongue,
still warm from the sun,
and when I make rice,
my fingernails ache for the dirt
beneath the lacy cilantro,
and my nostrils are starved
for the strong scent that ought
to linger on my palm after
the waxy firmness of basil leaves
 
I do not want to go home,
but if I did,
at least in the yard I could
settle in the grass,
let it tickle every inch of my legs,
softly brush away the friendly ants 
and let the light bake into my skin,
for rather than appraising my sanity,
you all would join me in the soil,
a puddle of simple satisfaction 
 
I do not know how to handle
the tension between gratitude
and growth
and the grief of getting better
where nothing grows
but me