Originally appeared in Union by Don Share, Eyewear Publishing, 2013.

Pulling up
Pinocchio’s noses,
the seedlings everywhere
among the early roses,
you bite your lip,
pull at your hair.

Green shoot
from brown husk.
From dawn’s root
to withering dusk.

They have the world to go to.

*

Our separation
brings spaciousness
to my life.

I make time
to stand alone
in the garden;
I notice
the differing sunsets,
listen to the loquacious
evening dogs.

I let mosquitoes
have my blood,
and open
my house to ants.

Solitude is a bargain:
I hold up my end.

*

I bury
banana peels to nourish
new roots of pepper plants.

I leave some
to welcome the slugs,
who thrive on delay,
who leave traces;
who can’t be told
one from the other.

*

The seeds
of weeds
feed butterflies
which scour
the browning lawn
for rest.

I forget my work.

Either the crop is planted,
or it’s not;
either the crop is weeded,
or it’s not;
either the crop is harvested,
or it’s not.

Earth didn’t eat
the apple
in Paradise:
a man and a woman did.

I forget my work.

*

It makes sense
for bees
to nest near
honeysuckle,

for black crows
to stalk green grass,
for blue tips
to form early
on pine trees.

A thrush
steps
out on a limb
to sing.

As he leaves
the branch
it dances,
empty.

This makes sense.

*

Green shoot
from brown husk.
From dawn’s root
to withering dusk.

It makes sense.
I make time
to hold up my end.
We have the world to go to.

Photo by Mark Seton