Her body will break like a jar,Spilling the contents of
Pickled words, candied-ginger
Filling the base of a saucer like
Rocks cast into a Seer’s pond.
Her words are vessels,
Cargo ships split by seams with
Motives tacked to cork boards
Falling apart, she opens her
Mouth, nothing right comes out.
Her eyes are the soul,
Cerulean blue lines on a map
Clay basin of a dried up crick where
Compasses with eager needles
Never point South of
Her thinned lips clamping
Fractured irises cut words into
Confetti before they’ve the chance
To make their escape.
These weeds always nearSomehow sprout up
Never planted, but always there;
Diligence reaches out
Perseverance pulls them out by the roots
Endurance tosses them onto the trash pile
New strength burns them with “Holy Fire”:
Weeds as dark, pesky spirit flies
Or gnats that seek to ruin
Spoil at any picnic,
Like deer flies that annoy at the lake!
The garden is finally cleansed,
Daily the garden is watched over
Alert eyes and quickened hands,
Nothing impure is sprinkled about or sprayed,
And the garden is kept truly clean!
Only what really belongs is left
What does not belong is tossed out
And remains far outside,
Gone from what the heart of the true gardener embraces.