is what I grow. For too long
the emerald grass has slept under
a blanket of snow. For years I've
wept under grey bearded

clouds that hung so low, like pig's
snouts. I've not fed the tulip
or daisy. I've become lazy, a melting
popsicle dripping on the stick,

a spasm, a ****. Yes, I was a tic, moving
without rhyme, bottled like thyme that
sat on the shelf. I was for me and into
myself. All that I planted didn't sprout. Head

was overgrown with weeds
I didn't prune. Floating high in the air like
a helium balloon. Shrinking in the afternoon
sun. Wearing this habit like I was a nun.