Monday, September 3, 2012
This Garden
Because there is bamboo and mums
and the filtering of sun through trees.
Beacause he said "I love you more, Mom, and yes, it's possible."
Because god.
Then the shock that is a gentle awakening
too quickly turned to chaos
and the impossibly fine line
between play and rage -
only then
and because god
is tolerance.
I wanted to love like some Southern California sun -
so consistent and reliable the warmth, the offerings,
that the life-sustaining light itself
could be taken for granted.
I wanted to love like water.
A brook, a river -
an uncharted ocean
whose quiet calm
could not be imagined.
Still, the magnificent crimson mum
sharing a stem with her lifeless brother
and they, the mere possibility of a bulb
only one Winter gone.
This womb.
There are wild clovers thriving
amidst flowerless forget-me-nots -
their heads pulled off without method
by the eager fingers
of adolescent's zeal.
This garden.
I figured the succulents would take -
would spread and cover the cinderblock walls
that define our beds.
But they are weary -
their empty hands
seeking light
in this Northwestern house of shade.
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