In the Garden
I wake among orchids and lilies
whose petals cover my face like hands
my mouth full of dirt, wet and sweet
pebbles in my mouth like lies.
I walk, I talk, I move through a thick fog
of everyone's weighted dissatisfactions
dragging
tangling at my feet and twisting at my ankles
losing myself on the path.
I trip and fall and can't get up.
I lie and listen to the songbirds in the trees
their chip-chirp tunes that should whittle at me
"Pull yourself together"
"Get your shit in order"
"Stop being a burden"
but I don't bleed. Maybe I can't.
Maybe I am a stone in the garden
covered in damp moss on my North side
cold and hard and empty on the South
with nothing in-between.
I lie in a millstone where I grind at myself
words turn to ash in my mouth
dust of intention slips through my fingers.
I am becoming a fine powder you can wash or wipe away.
