in which I read the moon

book cast aside, gazing instead

at this clouded light and dappled

face staring down through the window

unmoving, solemn, thinned with hollow

cheeks and brow drawn back towards

the dark. i read moon with my own

metaphors. this is simply a solid rock face

travelling in tandem with time. but therein

grow words


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in which minutiae write the day

this is a day of reading: like an envelope, the stapelia opens a flap and a speckled letter

dense with words unfolds one page at a time. clematis quills scrawl an annotated manuscript

around plumeria wood.  i am gathering leaves for mulch, a sign that summer is almost over

at last.  ivy settles in the palm of my hand apparently growing in nothing but fallen debris.

I spot geranium cedric morris raising an unexpected question among ferns. the more

i look, the more the patch writes minutiae. i pause, thinking about small beginnings

while a currawong, high above me in the jacaranda tree, declaims again


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in which plants make their way home

some plants transplant one back to other soil

as if I stood once more on a rocky outcrop

looking down on a dry, dusty veld sprinkled

with the colours of sand and rock, layers of orange-tipped

kalanchoe and bulbine abyssinica turning red

in the long drawn out dusk. But I am in a different place.

I pack a few plants in a plastic bag and amble home

with a brillantaisia bobbing among people like a purple lizard

oblivious to all.


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