Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Dead Drunk Garden

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:

Melissa said...

I love the way you see things. ;) So now I know what my plants are doing way down under the snow.

Maureen said...

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.

Glynn said...

All life hides, is buried in those broken garden beds. And then they know when it's time for life again. Good poem, Kathleen.

A Simple Country Girl said...

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.

Joyceann Wycoff said...

How do roots endure
soggy cold waiting?

How beautiful to have a glimpse into this unseen world.