Sunday, August 21, 2016

a seed senses what it will become

waiting to be shorn of its
summer sacraments,
our garden is a wild thing in August.

on hands and knees in its warm dirt,
I whisper questions:
when do weeds become flowers?”

and, “in the fall, where does it all go?”

in the evening, the Kentucky whiskey
I sip is warm smoke
from the embers of the day.

with a deep breath, my tired body slips
beneath sleep and drifts in its slow tides.

much later, I wake to see
the moon tethered to the treetops.
I grope for a pencil,
flip on the lamp, and write:

nothing ever really goes anywhere.”
and
weeds become flowers because they do.”

then I flip off the lamp
and watch the moon come untethered
until my eyes realize that I am asleep

and it's time to dream.


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