In The Garden
I have been in the garden since before you could talk Petal born, fragrance grown The words just under the soil somewhere underneath it all somewhere waiting Fed by crows, honey buzz and undisturbed Unflappable knowing Every syllable grass-seed grown and held heard by breeze cradled in the morning dew wrapped warmth of spring, I saw him take everything: turning words to mud misunderstanding underestimates the way sound cannot be erased cannot be made into nothing Before and after I wait in the flower bed in the daffodil sprung up unexpected In the complex knot of clover lawn and always listening, knit the noise back together none of it makes sense to you but I hear the whimper and the growing is the crushed under under horror and a groundswell, flower-woven powerful.
