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Danielle Sep 20
he had a special place in my heart, though he had it all.

As a kid, I admired all the celestial bodies that I can put in pages, I can see how the constellations are connected to my veins and how the moon is shaped like your eyes.

The more I grow older, the further I learn to wander in the garden, a wilderness where the islands haven't been named, parallels have intertwined and orbits that have once collided.

Oceans were calling me to test its depth— the calmness of it reminds me of you, the stillness of it brought terror as the deep waters are not moving. you're a scenery in a post card that I could receive but not enough to love me.
George Krokos Aug 24
Garden flowers are
colorful needless to say
with care some are grown
Written in 2020.
my father sat in a pool
of mid-morning sunshine
on the raised patio
overlooking the garden
an open book in his lap
the dog asleep at his side
the lightest of clouds
decorating the horizon
and a whisper of leaves
his only distraction

as i rushed to the kitchen
for a hastily made
better-than-nothing version
of a flat white
that i wouldn't even enjoy
only ten minutes to spare
before yet another meeting
i paused for a moment
to take in this scene
resplendent as he was
peacefully present
behind the radiance
of diaphanous lace
breeze-rippled curtains
suffused with sunlight

a pertinent reminder of something
that i didn't have time to consider
A Spicebush Swallowtail
sipping nectar all day
Summer time is here.
I had a beautiful visitor today in my butterfly garden. She's beautiful. Haiku 5, 7, 5
A Spicebush Swallowtail
sipping nectar all day
Summer time is here.
I had a beautiful visitor today in my butterfly garden. She's beautiful.
Exosphere Jul 12
green bean
don’t be so mean
just come clean
I know you want to be seen

hiding under the leaves
don’t be such a tease
your song has been sung
it’s time to please
my tongue
M H John Jul 9
you salt my gardens green
reviving the trees
in which eden
used to swing

calling out to me
to bring my own tears
from the emerald sea
i give them to you

to control

for my gardens may know
how i have
lost my soul
far too long ago
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2
~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal


see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…

our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar

how I love the how-work of it;  how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness

we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children

in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting

it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it

for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by

the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains

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