While the plants dream up their own growth,
Buds stretch on thin stalks,
And the seeds pulse heavy in fruit:
Be there, aware that shoots and tendrils,
Anything that reaches out to the light,
Are held up by invisible hands.
Lift your head up from your sorrow
And wait for the shimmer of light
Across your face. The wind shall shift
It is grey cloth around you; tassels shall
Tickle your toes. Hold the garden’s attention
For as long as you can.
Keep them heavy around the smooth stones,
Snag their joys on rose thorns,
Keep them lingering on the moss.
Ask your question, something like:
“Why do mushrooms grow? Where do you run
At that moment, before you make yourself real
Then hold back?” The prophecy tells me we will
Never be together in this world.
But my lamp is bright.
“I shall come to you.”
