Thursday, April 9, 2015

Talking Back to the Mad World

- Sarah C. Harwell
 
I will not tend. Or water,
pull, or yank,
I will not till, uproot,
 
fill up or spray.
 
The rain comes.
Or not. Plants: sun-fed,
moon-hopped, dirt-stuck.
 
Watch as flocks
of wild phlox
 
appear, disappear. My lazy,
garbagey magic
makes this nothing
happen.
 
I love
the tattered
camisole of
nothing. The world
runs its underbrush
course fed by
the nothing I give it.
 
Wars are fought.
Blood turns.
Dirt is a wide unruly room.


from: Sit Down Traveler. Copyright 2012.

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