The things I’ve forgotten, the messes I’ve made,
the dried-up, brittle-boned detritus of survival.
Perhaps I left it out as a reminder.
A forecast. A prediction.
Or a testament to who I really am,
beneath the soil of wasted hour and wanted nutrient.
Root-bound. Buried.
Parched or drowning, depending on the weather.
Somehow, even so, I will bloom.
.
.
.
planted from a seed wrapped in blood-soaked cloth
on the edge of a forest scarred by arrow
blind-told witness held by treachery
and stars
in the season of growth and green glory
each ring forged of gold
crowned by emerald
each year fed by tear
and ambition
each branch forced to sky
by the sap of lost soldier
broken lock
buried heart
bitter potion
taking root
in the foibles of sand
.
.
.
evidence of yesterday’s kisses
spill over into the long season
of shedding
new skin lies smooth beneath
the crackle dry surface
of the dream you had at twenty
the one that stole your color
by breathing green into a night
bargaining for darkness
you held hands with the prince
of petulance and whisper gestured
your undying fealty
to the king of lacrimosa
but the birds
pick your bones clean
now
after every word’s been spoken
you feed their flight
with dried up chips and bits
of purple
offering up the life
that was singularly yours
food for folly and for freedom
as the sky rests its head
on your satisfied
shoulders
.
.
.
.
some days
i let my camera choose the focus
and fall in love
with imperfection
all over again
.
i dream myself awake and wander
through corners of remembrance
there is no hope
there is only hope
there is only keeping on
we all climb the same mountain
weight-bearing and moon lifted
and the snail that eats
the lily
must surely taste
sunshine
i cannot blame her
for surviving
though i admit
there are times
when i toss her into weeds
where she will climb
and eat the flavor
of absent-minded forgiveness
just as content
with a broken down aster
alive
.
.
.
all your flaws are evidence of irony
mother nature has a sense of humor
but also, a quick temper
she sends flowers as apology on a regular basis
you have to cut your own path in the forest of existence,
with a quick-sharp, heart-forged machete
courage is your metronome and
labyrinth is another word for learn
live lost and laugh at life’s thunder
the sky remembers every flash of lightning
earth is just a pattern of old scars
hiding shy beneath a veil of tattered stars
.
.
and all you can do is listen
the sound of petals opening is a whisper of countenance
growth is always louder than stasis
rushing headlong into the light can leave you blind
all the answers lie
in the space between seconds
where the song of eternity echoes
two hands one heart
weaving songs of forever
left to dance on the wind
of intention
.
.
.
.
sometimes
life takes
a big old chunk
right out of you
.
sometimes
life traps you
in a rusted out
corner
.
go ahead
bloom anyway
.
.
.
.
and a morning filled with birdsong,
windows open to a drizzly rainy day
wrapping me in a blanket of cool humidity
my garden is happy,
half clean and half beautiful mess
and this is progress
and just outside my window
i’ve planted
kiss me over the garden gate
right next to
love lies bleeding
which makes me smile
because i know which one
grows taller
.
.
.
