Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Third Draft of April 27 Poem--Needs a Title

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

Ivy introduces itself
to sticks as
I gather groups
of murmuring stones,
ask the questions
dandelions won't answer,
wonder who's leading
this strange assembly.

But I also 
bleed from thorn
cuts and scratches,
from this bi-yearly
yard work, weeding.
I wonder, what
it is like
to mulch together? 

Sweating on branches,
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.

third draft
copyright April 30, 2014
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