Garden Within The Child

Behind the house, sloping down to the creek
    Lies the rocky, almost flat expanse of weeds and mud,
    Two houses wide by three deep - the house is small.
A spade in the shed is waiting - the oldest son not ready;
    First spade - then weed - then fish.
The Buckies are running - seeds grow well over Buckies.
Cool breezes, gentle with the smell of spring,
    Cool not my heart - heavy as the rocks amid the weeds.
The rocks grow among the greens,
    flooded by warmth from the sun.
My heart grows in its garden, choked by its own weeds,
    flooded by stale blood; ever shaded from sun's love.
The rocks and weeds replaced, sprout glorious nourishment
    my heart, with all it's need, will never see or feel.
Wild geese, passing high above, honk their hellos.
Northward bound, Spring joy propels them home.
They plant no garden, but enjoy one anyway.
I plant and harvest rocks and weeds
    - and sometimes nourishment;
But, the garden of my heart
    grows only
        barren weariness.