Melted through the clouds one morning,
I saw all the colors that winter forgot.
Flourishing in the between,
After the shadows,
Where life started fresh.
My farmers bed of thyme,
Figs and bees,
Grape vines under the trees,
The courage of new life to stretch its feet.
The snails crunch up to the garden bench by my shoes,
I lift my boot above it’s shell,
And hesitate.
A spider of fall,
Knot a web round bugs that wayward tred,
Wrapped in threads to their last breathe,
While the wet morning melts now fresh.
Stumbling into the garden,
Raving and tucked,
Tearing apart the shrubs and doorways.
Never your own accord,
Never your fault,
Never accepted until I revolt.
Into the garden I hunker like a boulder,
Crunching flowers like the catalyst.
Tearing up patches of grass,
From the mulch, much like ripping my hair from its follicles.
The Sun did scorch the weltering red welded wealth,
Watching the cinders burnt charred dust,
A bed of dust,
A rusted redness bursting from the flames I bled.
Trapped behind gusts of torment,
And the throws of lust.
But… The year does pass,
And the rain does calm the heat at least,
As long as I keep reading.
The sun brought out all the colors that winter forgot,
That winter forgot,
The sun brought out all the colors that winter forgot,
The bees rings ran hot,
God it’s hot,
A cup of water.
Remember when the garden grew around us,
Bees have tongues,
And little birds sang that song we trust,
The ice melted and something about love,
Something that I read in this book,
It said; “patience and the wind blows that pollen to your taste.”
The sun brought out all the colors that winter forgot.