Tuesday, March 12, 2013

The Garden

I cut branches off a dead tree,
Put them in a wooden crate,
Bring the crate by the fireplace.

A splinter in my thumb.

I fill up the watering can
With the outdoor tap,
Carry it with both hands,
Water heather that mark
Where Toulouse is buried.

I plant tarragon
And smell everything.

Birds are loud,
I wonder what they talk about,
And how we sound to them.

A dog I don't know
Comes in the garden,
Runs in circles around the apple tree
And goes away.

I have slow and quiet thoughts.
My hands in the ground
Connect effortlessly with nature.
My mind doesn't have to put me there.
I'm already here.

I look up,
The sky is a sudden painting.

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