deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Garden

There's a garden in the back, but it hasn't been planted yet.  
Through the southern window you can see its nakedness,
bare to the sky, unashamed--
rich black earth, the color of mediterranean olives.  
 
-- it feeds our family every year,  
 my children with joy; their laughter echos behind
their footsteps as they chase each other through the wisteria.  
 
-- my husband his passion as he tends to the land,
and makes fertile its soil and carves out its shape
with his hands. Sometimes I get jealous,
                                                             but I am his muse.
 
In the summer, a bouquet of herbs perfume the kitchen
rosemary, basil, thyme -- through the window
blending with the scent of roasted garlic and
Campari tomatoes sweltering in the oven.  
 
The sound of the bread crunching in our ears, curls our toes
in pleasure as we spread the garlic over its center.  
We eat outside so the warm breeze can season our food  
with spices in the air.  
 
In the evening, the garden is where the lightning bugs come
to dance with me. My bare feet dig into the warm earth,
between my toes. The cicadas clash their tymbals,  
and the vines sway back and forth like hands around my waist.  
 
--Sometimes my husband gets jealous,
                                                            but he is my muse.  
 
The garden in the back is where I grow old. It is where
my roots grow beneath the house, so I can hear the drums
of my children's', children's feet as they run through the halls.  
 
--Where my arms will grow as branches to give shade,  
and where lovers will dance behind my tresses.
It is where future generations will come to plant...
in the garden in the back, where love still grows.
Written by janiselizabeth (Janis Miller)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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