when writing in the garden

...it is not me gardening.

It is the gardener in the I
of the storm
testing the air with his finger
budding calligraphy
from his master’s pallet.

When I write, speak, live
from the seat in the center
of The Garden,
it is with either:

The voice of old gods—the riders of Shem;
a trumpeting messenger with news!
Or
The mad squiggled lines left behind
on the path by The Fool
on his way to the upside-down noose;
stuck on the card that played him.

But at the end of the day
when I am
lying in bed, eyes closed,
inside The Wayfarer’s Temple,
it doesn’t matter how the voice comes,
came—
always comes,
all that matters is:
that you read
all the way through to the end.

Let The Gardener’s seeds
from the earth of the sea
take care of the roots and the rest.

All you need to do
is listen to the wind through the trees,
while breathing
in deep,
the cherry scent essence
of words.




© Kristin Reynolds 6 21 2010