.jpg)
Just as we are the Writers
of our Life story,
Puppeteers of Plot,
we play God
in our Gardens.
Sowing seeds to grow our Eden,
stitched in asphalt cracks,
heathens weight perched on hunched backs.
Fairy dust seeds and pixie weeds plume in bloom,
sprinkled and spread, they lay in bed.
Sapping up the cool cement sky,
dripping with indenture,
incensed by concentration.
Gathering the steely clouds breath
in our ewer, we pour out Life in buckets.
Trapping it in our pitchers,
bringing to light a chrysalis
of our Creation.
Digging our trenches
deep, embedding nourishment
-dam river goes where it dam well-
-renavigate –re-irrigate-
plans, tends, pre-supposes,
suspends with droughtful neglect
still waiting, doing Time.
Corn rows abundantly lined.
Out-fitted, out-witted, de-pitted,
ripening in repercussion,
footed in this fallow sphere-
the Fall plummets from labored limb.
Free to stay, there's no other way.
Room to grow into what it's meant to be,
making shade under the Kismet Tree.
Trapped in its own grave,
the dirty deed is done.
Parching in the sun, it thirsts for more
juicy fruits of forgetfulness.
Tethered, the sapling stretches,
it can see the garden Gate, choked,
wrapped in thorny barbed vines.
And beyond the green grass glimmers,
beckoning in sinful diamond dew.
The only sentence the Kismet Tree knew,
“Life without parole”,
but still pretends
there's a different End.Image By OSU Special Collections & Archives : Commons [see page for license], via Wikimedia Commons.
