(no subject)
The Garden
Driving home from my sister’s
in that half-glazed reflective state
of early morning
I pass by the cemetery.
And in a brief moment of dull-dawn-light clarity
I think:
The graveyard is a garden.
Filled with rows upon rows of
little holes
With seeds safely tucked away
6 ft under,
and each crop marked and labeled
By little more than a glorified
Popsicle stick with Sharpie writing on it
Stuck into the dirt.
People say the crops are waiting for the spiritual harvest.
A week later and I’ve placed my own little seed
Six feet underground
And covered him with soil.
There is nothing to wait for.
In the cemetery
I see people talk to their seedlings
and I see them water the ground with tears
Trying to get their plants to grow.
Sometimes they forget that
There is no garden;
This is a graveyard.
February 2007
Driving home from my sister’s
in that half-glazed reflective state
of early morning
I pass by the cemetery.
And in a brief moment of dull-dawn-light clarity
I think:
The graveyard is a garden.
Filled with rows upon rows of
little holes
With seeds safely tucked away
6 ft under,
and each crop marked and labeled
By little more than a glorified
Popsicle stick with Sharpie writing on it
Stuck into the dirt.
People say the crops are waiting for the spiritual harvest.
A week later and I’ve placed my own little seed
Six feet underground
And covered him with soil.
There is nothing to wait for.
In the cemetery
I see people talk to their seedlings
and I see them water the ground with tears
Trying to get their plants to grow.
Sometimes they forget that
There is no garden;
This is a graveyard.
February 2007