Poetry

Step 23 (83.)

I missed gardens,
as in, I had not taken the time to properly
set one up and care for it.
I missed them too, this prolonged dreamwalk
having led me in twists and turns
that make intestines feel faint.
A million colors pop out to say hello, and the flowers wave their petals to and fro,
and some kind of vermilion tomato pops its juice into the sky.
Liquid lands with a sound like twenty water balloons exploding at once,
and the whole terrarium is drenched.
Thirst for vengeance not quenched, the tomato’s juice
dissolves whole vegetables in its wake,
leaving naught behind but tangled knots of roots and jagged stems.
These rough legs can’t support what is now gone.
Wind whistles through vines and brambles,
then kazoos into the soil
and clarinets a dozen trenches that are waiting for some actions.
The somnambulist waits too,
and my reaction
is to scatter all the nuts and berries and flutes of pollen in my hands.
They watch me with an air that feels like satisfaction,
nothing like the symphonic wind that crescendos the end of this garden.
Blue stalks climb from gravedirt, bright orange saplings sprout like zombies,
and whole rows of rainbow herbs parade above the ground.
I’m not sure who spoke ill of tomatoes the last time they made these rounds,
but they really pissed off that vermilion bastard.
The spiteful juice and its effects are all gone now,
and life springs forth again.
One day another weary traveler will uproot their sleep to be here,
and they will decide
what the soil does next.

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