Tuesday, April 22, 2014

We Must Tend Our Garden

-->
         I spend declining days beneath
the to and fro of sunshine
on one of two verandas.
I lose at chess with heaven is pals,
and when my sweet-she comes to visit,
sweet-she sits with me in wicker --
sweet-she leans in close
as not to impede.

I have gardens to tend
and so does she.
We are the gardens
we tend for free.
Hers is a nursery
for gratitude.

Blessings counted sow the seed,
contentedness to water her  
compassion flowers.
Come the bloom: how they grow;
how she grows; how she plucks
its fruit to fill her pantry further,
pantry of a soul.
She feeds me from it
when we wake, and when
we wake I make her breakfast.

In my garden I grow me.
I am the seeds and the shit beneath,
am the fertilizer. I harvest all the me I need
for free.

          She is here on wicker
and I am thinking where to move
my queen in gridded battle,
basking in the sun and battle
and heaven is pals,
when the living queen leans close.

I tend to what I tend to
and she to what she to:
leans in close,
as not to impede.
We must tend our gardens
And know our seeds.

No comments:

Post a Comment