Lines of this earth,
parallel and pointing.
My feet, like tree roots,
sink me into fat
black loam.
Spines of insects curl
round my toes
and you stand by
blue florescence
watching me, wondering
why I am not blown off yet
like the other ones
who waded into the rain
for a moment away.

The garden wall bows
proud for decades
while the snails snail clumsy
shells and the slugs slug over
slime. For decades, I wait
for the bomb
or perhaps Mr. Kool-Aid man
to break the monotony
of watching this life.
Sprouts that stem.
Flowers that fruit.
And you by blue florescence,
waiting for my leaves.

Often I wrote thinking of you
feet away from my garden wall,
wishing we spoke more
and that harvest
did not need to be
such a sad ceremony.
You pick me.
You feel me.
You carry and drop me.
I wish you knew me better
than just apple pie and shade.
Then, maybe by Winter,
my poetry would be more
than just kindling to your fires.

written on 05/31/2011 by: Matt Kane