We have wanted gardens.
Patches of dirt where nothing grows but color and form;
That call to bees and hummingbirds;
Where food and money do not enchant and drive
But only something small, beautiful, fragile, temporal,
To fill in memories of what we no longer have.
To replace however painfully, ineffectually, what we lost.
As I wrote in the last post (and I confess my blogging here is scattered) I do not consider myself a poet. I did interview a real poet, KB Ballentine, on my podcast, so check that out on Stitcher, Apple, and Spotify, etc. https://rss.com/podcasts/dialogues-with-creators/918393/