It is still too cold to plant. I pruned the dead banana stalks yesterday. I was surprised -- and the kitties delighted -- that the catnip was lush and full. A good time was had by all.
Today it is raining. Poetry must take the place of flowers for now...
The tree waves.
Tickled with squirrel paws,
Trickled by rain,
She knows her place,
Plants her roots,
Holds her ground.
What does that feel like?
To remain so steadfast?
To watch the changes of time?
Birds in our hair.
Worms in our toes.
Seasons on our tongues.
Inside,
I think we used to know.
No comments:
Post a Comment