A Gardener’s Lament

It is not my breath that rustles the leaves.
I sit monochrome in the speckled shade
barely awake. Everything has changed
this morning. I watch the clematis reach,
stretch toward celestial blue. Green on green,
last night’s rain loads a labyrinth of leaf.
Whether dusty sage or prickly pear sweet,
it’s not my intention to change a thing,
to favor towering foxglove over
purslane’s yellow bud or twisted clover.
A fleecy head of dandelion seed
harms not the noble, indigo iris.
Now that summer is finally upon us,
there is no need to name a thing a weed.


I hear the distant drone of lawn mowers.
I hear my neighbor scurry, scrape and pound.
Where in this wounded land is my place to thrive?
All that matters is to be truly wild,
to vine my heart around the roots of mind,
unfurl the luminous flower within.
The bursting burr, the cinnamon tendrils
of the climbing rose, the pink-tipped petals
of bindweed blooms, the healing echinacea,
all vibrate with the sun, all have their niche,
their time to flourish. I’m the only one
that needs to leave, that can never belong.
Listen how the grass flattened by my weight
springs back into life as I walk away.

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