Wednesday, February 4, 2015

A Writer's Lament in Winter

I tried to be a gardener.

Planted pink and yellow flowers,
arranged pocked-white limestone rocks
in spiral patterns, dreaming of fibonacci,
a big Zen fountain in the middle.
There was beauty for a while.

Spring and Fall and another Spring and Fall have come
and the garden is more weeds than not.
Moss pokes through the holes in one of the white rocks.
I tuck my head down,
ignore the mess and run away inside to the words.

Words. I can cultivate those. Prune here. Plant a seed
that will take root and life and spring up

Pull the flowers out
cover it with grass
because I do not care what the neighbors think of
my green thumb.

These thumbs are bleeding ink.

Feb '15

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