everywhere, glimpses

of other wilds

poke through

our creature’s

slow path:

a pink ajuga

appears staidly

enough

then spreads towering

towards

a mounded spot of soil waiting

for blue, sky blue, evolvolus blue

salvia blue, coral blue

space,

blue space

 

 

blues sing of blues

sing of morning pinks

burnishing leaves

with light from

the wandering

side of the world,

sing of snail trails

of amazement

 

 

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Grafting a cherry tree

Imagine that I graft onto a cherry tree.

 

I practice first, for although this cherry

weeps, its stiff branches are rigid

and unmoving and show no sign

of life.

 

I ponder how I could

hold its grafted trunk so that

we would meld into one breathing spring,

 

a shade of blossoms

which would fill the corner

for twenty more years…

 

If I need to

I will start again

lifting the soil, turning, tilling, trying

 

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Tender: in which neglect does not come easily

Running across the wall like burnt spaghetti

strung out and terse, a creeper confronts

my stare with an unfolding.

 

Two leaves in pure symmetry and as still as this day

holds breath for rain, gesture to me to accept

that no harm has come to them,

 

opening like butterflies resting

in their evolution to colour and flight.

Still I fret, even as wisteria

 

returns, returns with all the scent

of a past when tenderness

circled around that one spot

 

of garden, the rudiments of neglect

nowhere apparent, embedded deep inside

their purple panicles

 

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in which the wisteria bloomed again

Each year an uninvited guest of night

possum pet

has been ungraciously knocking around

chomping the wisteria

before it could

be

 

We gave up.

 

A  random glance today

caught a panicle of mauve

unfurling like a bush orchid,

a miniature feather

of fluff

puffing up a pendant

along the fence.

 

Chorister and I gawked

to imagine huge vines of purple

scenting the air

again

 

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Harmonic chords

They’re walking

along routes from the third

country to the fifth

 

generations of people

on the move

like hands on a piano

 

over and over the keys

thirsting for tonics

and rests

 

while tourists gaze at ruins

and fields of widlflowers

along the road

 

decidedly unharmonic

except for a unity

of theme

 

and the vertical progression

of courage trying to sing

along the greening way

 

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