The Garden

The whirlpool of change trapped you. The grass grew, infants cried to be fed, the spot where you buried old clothes was touched. This dismantled you. You ran to knock over the man holding a shovel. You ripped his shirt and screamed for him to stop. But he told you it’s time to face life.

These stains are still fresh. These scents are of beings whose appetites were like yours. The world meddled with their fantasies while you played with them like dolls. Pull out this arm. This leg. This head. Undress. Examine. Flaunt.

Man-made elements can’t seek stability. You toss and turn. You retrace your steps. The garden’s evolving. You kiss the soil and mark it. Here lies a baby who died in its crib. Three feet from this spot is a woman whose body gave up in her pleasant sleep. See the wrinkled sole of the baby’s foot? And the lady’s tousled hair?

To feel that same warmth before souls wander toward their next home is only a dream. The cold death must come. The flowers that once faced the sun will p…