I wander outside
responsibility's strict walkway,
meander through tall cypress
and squatty hydrangeas
into the forgotten side yard
of myself.
Broken retaining walls
spill stone tears
among the
wreckage
of volunteer annuals,
blasted and dry
in their fading grey planters.
Quiet corridors open
beyond consciousness
into acres of ruin,
torn stumps tottering over pot-holes,
sinking bricks and dying shrubs,
dirt
packed as hard as concrete
from the years of neglect.
Need rises from the tenacious hold
of metaphor's ailing
but still obstinate rootstock.
I prune back ravaged limbs
to damp signs of live wood,
place my hands upon barren words,
fold nourishing fragments
and
wet amendments of dream
into starving layers of soil.
In spring,
I broadcast new seeds,
coax creativity's fresh germinations.
The path home grows more familiar.
Sweet peas cover old scars,
wrap pale silk and furry
tendrils
over property lines.
Daily, I watch for leaves,
the first opening bloom,
fruit bracts that set
and become mature poems.
