Garden

203461_1043105893_7925013_n_biggerby Joshua Converse05 Jul 2013

While they stretch and comingle
and whisper in dawn’s first hushed glow,
the weeds know what all weeds know,
in the garden they gasp their last.

For the cultivated flowers the only rebellion
is death.
They lie in beds made for them and sing,
and beckon,
and whimper at their petals
“Am I a shade darker today?”

The gardener is master and killer and king,
but curses the weather and prays for the Spring,
and pulls and prunes and clips and cuts,
The hand and the trowel form rhythms and ruts,
The hand and the trowel form rhythms and ruts,
The hand and the trowel form rhythms and ruts.

In the garden,
In the night,
The trees sweep wide in the wind,
and remember the forest and the seed and the fallen limb
and signal one to another across the darkness
“I remember,”
“I remember.”