This secluded grove we’ve planted
far away from raucous roads
in the former plot of our buried bones
is starting to sprout and bloom
in coiled vines of conversation
seeking to diagnose every single root,
and I see the shades it’s giving
in predominantly darker hues.
All the secret alcoved pines
that creak and sway in crippled silence
with strained enduring presence,
and all the overwhelming thyme
which only flowers a sterile violence,
just testify to thistly infections.
But if all we have to tend together
day after day in cloudy weather
is our collection of pines and stockpiled thyme,
then where might we hope for colour,
field lilies, china rose, and lavender,
or any other faint Spring sign?
How long can a solitary eye perceive
only endless seas of forest green,
only endless rows of pining trees,
only the medicinal side of everything
where it’s only healing, never living,
only managing, never breathing,
and never the inhale, only the exhale,
when there is a more vibrant grove to see?
different faces 