The weed unbent in a
lash to the eye
Just as a rose petal
floated onto the back
Of my hand
while standing up from
A premature adieu
to the garden geni;
The next-ridge freight train whistled
back my screech of wist
Imagined to fill the whole garden
but funneled back down my throat
In a quail’s toe worth of correction to
“Watch where you kneel,
“Watch where you step,
“Look up when you stand.”
After cleaning up from this most instructive session of gardening, I went to lunch.
Waiting for strawberries
to warm out of the
Sun brings whiffs of burnt edges–
something unknown,
Untimed, unshared.
When the strawberries
seemed to dance out
And meet all that was
frozen in the surround.
Leaving me to contemplate, while writing this post, the differences between reactions from and to Mother Earth’s still-natural children and reactions from and to Her processed, plasticized , formularized, dishes with particles divided against themseves. Let us just say that the small sting from the lashing weed completely healed by itself before I had left the garden. Not so the sting from the frozen glances of other diners while waiting for my warming strawberries! Back I go to the garden! Blessings on all weeds and quail toes!
granbee 