Tuesday, March 22, 2016

One Shade Away From Never Having Been

Sometimes it seems the world is too damn big,
too many variables, too many two-faced blessings,
too chaotic.
Trying to be calm or at ease in the flux and pulse
of the interminable motion seems impossible.
So, after an hour or two of trying 

to settle into the churning miasma,
slipping in and out (only to slip in and out again) of the turnstile
of what's possible, of what might become possible,
of what's imaginable and what's unimaginable (but imagine),
of what's within one's control, what's uncountably (count) beyond
— you try to think a garden.

A garden, a reasonable plot of land,
a chosen section to churn, turn, mind,
mend, sow and nurture.
This, you think, only this 

you will concern yourself with.

The tilling begins
and quite quickly you discover
a nearby oak root has went its way in your way
and belies an easy sifting.
Work, grinding and assertion.
And then the soil, once turned, reveals it's denuded.
Or is a draw for cutworms, wireworms or root maggots.
Or, the tall tomato plants were planted 

too tightly together with excitation,
wicking blight into your lives. 

A groundhog burrows into the plot
through the depths of your unreasonable mind.

So you make yourself a smaller garden.

And then smaller again.

Until the garden is only a couple shakes of earth,
the size of a picnic basket.
In which you plant a single matronly tomato.
Sow a solitary seed to become a gentleman bean pole.
Blow a breathful of seedlets to make lettuce babies.

But this isn't the truth. 

You know immediately the ruse.
And so you keep downsizing
until your hands are gone.

And there is only a scrim
of soil over rock.
A plant or a tree.

An unnamed weed.
And maybe a bird.
An insect.
Or wind.

Or maybe not.
Only the chance of the soil meeting seed.
Only the arbitrary and unlikely sowing of life.

Only then do you sleep.