Potluck

"I want to hold your edges…Ascend into the mouth of your survival." -- Simone Muench

I have learned to piece scraps from what washes ashore,
build driftwood and rocks into intricate gardens.

There are times I cry out and sink roots,
although keeping my eyes closed.

I am pragmatic and adept, sacrifice that which rubs,
snip away tangled love knots.

New growth flourishes, stretches
from torn scars of old, silvery traumas.

I am surprised by the volunteer who suddenly appears,
disrupts my orderly planting bed, blooming his heart out.