I’m letting the root rot open to the air.
holding the shovel at bay,
not ready (yet) for the tender hug
of mulch.
Dirt under the fingernails for days.
The smallest of shifts felt
while I trace a line
between self-indulgence, fertilizer,
and truthful, detached seeing-
walking the rows at sunrise.
The birds’ songs and chirps
an invitation to now
to breath
to exposure of even the slightest
inkling of maladjustment,
browning leaves
wilting old growth –
(loved
even so
on her way out).
Meeting needs
as they arise
in the garden outside
and the garden within
is enough.
The world is allowed to die back,
so paradise (undergrowth) can be exposed.
Life as Improv 