poetry

 

We Must Tend Our Garden

I spend declining days beneath

the to and fro of sunshine

on one of our verandas.

I lose at chess with heaven is pals,

and when my sweet-she comes to visit,

sweet-she sits with me in wicker --

sweet-she leans in close

as not to impede.

I have gardens to tend

and so does she.

We are the gardens

we tend for free.

Hers is a nursery

for gratitude.

Blessings counted sow the seed,

contentedness to water her

compassion flowers.

Come the bloom: how they grow;

how she grows; how she plucks

its fruit to fill her pantry further,

pantry of a soul.

She feeds me from it

when we wake, and when

we wake I make her breakfast.

In my garden I grow me.

I am the seeds and the shit beneath, 
am the fertilizer

I harvest, all the me I need

for free.

She is here on wicker

and I am thinking where to move

my queen in gridded battle,

basking in the sun and battle

and heaven is pals,

when the living queen leans close.

I tend to what I tend to

and she to what she to:

leans in close,

as not to impede.

We must tend our gardens

And know our seeds.