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Thursday, July 02, 2015

The Garden at Night

the garden looks dead at night,
until you place your hand in its earth,
and you feel the soil is so warm,
soaked through with sun; firm enough
to build a home on, yet weak to the touch,
giving way, breaking, life moving
through your fingers, seeping deep
its scent lingers on you some;

your pores and skin recognising
the same fabric as its own; feeding
waters muddying its molten clay,
breeding roots growing low, and how
the garden breathes so right in the shade
of your curious hands; going down;
down and down to where you're made
to lay buried in its scented ground;

and senses spark and surround
in a force of nature that runs inbound;
in a jumble of genes that seem
to talk freely without making a sound,
where life is forged and chained
in its hidden keep, and the seeds
embedded there deep at night wait,
to grow and wake in the daylight.

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