There’s
not enough herbicide in the world
To
kill the White Top in my garden.
It
must be pulled by hand, by the roots
Like
an infection, a bad habit, a baby.
Even
then where water falls
it reseeds. So recede yourself
If
you’re thinking to restrain the birth of things
growing
since before you.
Lazy
Boy doesn’t make a birthing stool.
Slender,
handsome, hand-honed as a child.
Though
beautifully designed, not
the
wood one would expect to find in
front
halls, near a table, or a mirror
as
if a body might stop off there
lean
back and be relieved of eight or ten
pounds
extra before
skipping
up stairs.
In
time it becomes
a
backroom altar
parental
petitions light the candles.
it’s
curve fits confession nicely.
Still,
every life’s a new life
No
one’s registered a retread
Even
the reincarnated.
I
am glad life is tenacious
and
that you, sprouting
when
you did, seeded
surprises
in my space
to
illuminate a late season.
LFM
No comments:
Post a Comment