The new growth on my apple trees is covered in aphids;
the leaves curl and darken under the crawling green foam of their bodies.
My roses broke out in black, dropping yellow leaves,
bearing thick sickly flowers of hope on bare spindly stems.
Now even old hollyhocks have scales, those innocent seeming bumps
multiplying and spreading. And the aphids will go everywhere when they
**** the apple trees dry, they are already migrating
to poppy buds and young tomatoes.
I go to the nursery, resisting the urge to wring and brush off my hands.
She uncovers the facts--my garden got no fertilizer, and water may be insufficient.
So I will try to give my garden what it needs--the nutritious powder, the thorough watering,
the ladybugs in cheesecloth cages, the beneficial microbes, and where I must I will hack the plants away.
My self, meanwhile,
crawls too.
I slather vice on the wound, but the sting always returns.
The world expects me to be stronger than I am. The world is set up
for strong people, and it provides for them.
Once again I am like the short, shy child standing by the counter, overlooked.
But I cannot expect to grow into strength. And the world will only protect me
once I no longer need protection.
At times I sit in a stream of presence. I slather virtue on the wound,
but the sting always returns.
I straddle need and lack,
a gaping wound between my feet. I could sink down that hole,
but it too hurts, it hurts.
I am in the wild--no gardener comes to tend to my hunger or thirst,
or my illness after harsh conditions. Well, one comes--
a harsh gardener comes.
I wring and brush off my hands. I brush off each little invasion,
but there are always more.