Dreaming the gardener
How the pain
A few have asked.
How the pain.
I cannot map it. There is
Terrain; there is a blank
Landscape. I can see
A woman, blind or blinded, still
Feels her way, in touch
With her lostness, but this one,
It is not even land.
It has no ground.
The doctor's vocabulary turns deadly
Militaristic: "invasion, destroy, rebels:
Massacre, counterattack, fight."
Enough. This is no mere insurgency
I refuse to go to war.
But to you who have asked
How the healing, I tell you this dream:
There is a garden sprung imperfect
By the weed's exuberance of flowers.
The garden shivers in this fog of earthbound clouds.
There is this gardener abundant of will. Quietly, she tends
Bougainvilleas, roses, a firetree by the gate,
Willing well the weeds, the flowers,
The firetree, herself.
I am the dream's woman. Her garden,
This body and mind sprung and willed
To life's many more summers.