Into Brightness

Of the garden (what garden
fulminating weeds) where once
was frail sprout, white rose
shaded by paternal oaks-

my soul shriveled by heat,
by absent hands and rusted
tools. The metal tongue
of dirt and ore sucking out

life's thick, green fluids;

darker fingers still, shred
the vines, a trellis to another
world. Of memory the plump faced
moon looks down through fog
and rain as if it were a quiet shell

poking through the ocean sands.

Of the garden shimmering in darkness,
beneath its sad and silent eyes,
a seed begins its journey into light
and so my soul climbs its ladder

into brightness.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Climbing well, apparently. (Since you can see that the brightness is there.)