Broken garden beds
covered with lifeless husks
lay brown down.
Their skeletal remains
used to be color spots,
pigmented petals
wooing friends
gathering nectar.
How do roots endure
soggy cold waiting?
They huddle together
thankful they aren't
homeless or alone.
Wrapping
their feet around each other
in the dark
they swallow great drunken
gulps of the rain maker's
honey mead
waiting to burst out
laughing again
when the sun's love
tickles them
awake.
5 comments:
I love the way you see things. ;) So now I know what my plants are doing way down under the snow.
This is wonderful, Kathleen. You've created several striking (because unexpected) associations, as that one to the homeless and alone; and that delightful ending. What I especially like is how full of life this really is, as are you.
All life hides, is buried in those broken garden beds. And then they know when it's time for life again. Good poem, Kathleen.
Miss Kathleen, how long does it take you to write such words strung together like that? It is beauty..."gulps of the rain makers honey mead."
Blessings.
How do roots endure
soggy cold waiting?
How beautiful to have a glimpse into this unseen world.
Post a Comment