A Lesson In Botany
I want to explain how your heart is made of soil;
don't worry. I have the words to tell you. Now,
within you, there is an field to grow, there is this
dirt, the kind that as a child I looked at with eyes
wide and fingers itching. That rich, black stuff,
the kind that you know all the best will sprout from.
So this is what happened, love, a seed slipped in.
You met someone, a spore, and she crept in like
dandelions scatter. I know it grew, she took hold
of all that lifeblood that makes you so giddy,
and roots and roots, and flowers were coming out
of everything you glanced at. Then came nothing,
as even the most fertile ground will shiver inwards
when there is nothing given back. I know that is
where you are. You are left with an overgrown
nervous system, all these vines that smell like
memories all the time, even when the wind doesn't
blow. I know what will happen:these tendrils lose.
They loosen, they'll start to twitch and one day
not too long in the future you'll unwind the longest
one from your eyes and begin to transfer this
thing, this organic masterpiece of rejected potential.
You will put it in a jar. You will put it in a planter.
It will be alive, but on your windowsill, not feeding
on your veins and nerves but watered by your reminisces.
Look, you will say. That is a thing I have planted,
a thing I have grown and left behind. Oh, past.
Oh, this garden that I am.
Share This Poem