Monday, April 28, 2014

Expanded from Yesterday--National Poetry Month

Because our yard
has strangling roots
and tall trees,
leaves from last
year meet beneath
our April shrubs,
talking too loudly
when I scoop
them, drop them
into plastic bags.

Sparrow and squirrel
poop have painted
our rose bushes,
ivy introducing itself
to our steps,
and I, bleeding
now from thorn
cuts and scratches,
do the bi-yearly
yard work, weeding.

I gather groups
of silent stones,
ask the questions
grass won't answer,
wonder who's leading
the strange assembly,
speak to them.
I wonder what
it is like
to mulch together. 

Sweating on them,
I lick my 
unused lips, disheartened
teeth to fingertips,
I bite with
my mouth dry,
clean the earth
from my nails.

Gardening for love
is a myth.

copyright April 28, 2014
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