I live across the pond, yet see her
sunrise silhouette in that shed, potting and planning,
her mind constantly rooting words, flourishing
from the rafter of her tongue.
I see me, too, patiently waiting to grasp every seedling offered.
This is Hallowed thought, a sacrosanct connection
of Rock, bone, and blood of sorts – separated
through generations of mothers who were less than gentle
and daughters who learned to hide cruel skeletons
in closets long before adolescence.
We share that, her and I-
knowledge no loved or wanted child tastes;
and yet, we both were to the best of
their maternal abilities.
Nature erases her pain, between
Golden Chaffinch and Wood Pigeons,
fox and Cup and Saucer Vine, she kneads soil pliable
with her hands, extended fingers stretching deep
for the source of life to bury her past in.
I know her burrowed sanctuary
through the thick wooded reserve
and do not worry when she disappears
down its throat.
Because, I also know, no matter what path or ocean
or lake swallows her form, she will return as spring,
as azalea and squirrel, as cormorant and cold surf
to the donation of her life's work that is this
Rockhallowed garden I tangibly envision myself in.
I also know that she knows I will always be here
as a bulb, patiently awaiting her warmth to emerge.
Imprefectedstone is one of the most imagery-laden writers I've read. Her remarkable depictions of a naturistic life create the most beautiful visions in my sphere. She is not only a gardener of gardens, but spirits as well. I feel a deep-seeded connection to her soul and blessed beyond measure to have met her in this lifetime