This garden of mine
is wild with seeds.
I disorder the bed for spring,
grown tough, uprooting weeds
grown deep under a thin sun.
Out of time with the seasons,
I force a habit to dig,
continue to sift where purification
is never perfection under a cold sky.
Hard clouds repeat and repeat,
cast by wind across winter;
the paled sun shivers, bedded in grey.
Acts of an old star
are constantly with me,
shooting and dropping full
from the Virgin's sheaf:
in my living is their foundation.
I reach rock
where the roots clutch dry,
a confusion of need
sunk sure in the fault.
Time's web locked
their wrong growth.
Ripped from their bed,
they maze in my hand,
unlearn the way of the ground.
The stone is pristine now.
I rise up from the split and cut of it
where matter is form and custom
held by impending earth.
It shadows and shines
under a new plane of light,
a tone of stars
beyond our common gods.
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