"Chrysalis"
The garden should be sedate. The sky pale
in its recovery. I’ve seen the sun like this before,
clipping the fence with lightning.
It was his campanula
then, pushed into bed. Watered
like a blue and thirsty woman, giving drops
to her upturned face. But this wilderness
I step into, is a stretch of cold suffering
red nets of fennel, the sun setting fire to it.
*
I had places I could go. The length of a wrist,
the width of a neck. Beneath the white
of pinks. My muddy hands on the roots,
sinking deeply in the earth. It was me
the fennel spoke of-- a chrysalis invaded
by tree roots and the tapered pathway
of worms. These blues redden, catching grazes
of light over rooftops, chimneystacks, the elms
fanning themselves. This early morning fire
has me cracking a shell too quickly, the moth
ready for ants and beetles and nothing left
for the stay of a waking garden.
© 2006 E.V. Brooks (Lia)
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