“Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus.
Our bodies are our gardens,
to which our wills are gardeners…”
– Iago, Act 1, Scene 3 in Shakespeare's "Othello”
A commandment to wellness,
spoke aloud, with resolute foursquare,
of which no doubt,
upon whom the responsibility lays,
each of us poets individually
I am not a gardner,
know not the pleasure of rich dark soil
loam, cupped in my hand,
or the stroking of first blooms,
the genteel of spring,
afternoon delights for the eyes,
but for me, no elemental quivering
no instinct bids me
dig, plant, water and worry…
but my body’s garden another matter
for pillaging insects,
the bollwevil
and other assorted devils
planted internally and infernally
breeding
the ills of human failings,
with tulip yellow couragelessness,
they infiltrate & exploit
the crevices where our fallacies
buried but unearthed
what is this longevity word?
we've live as long as intended,
forces internal,
weathered by outside forces,
gales amazing and pelting storms
within and without
combative
born from earth’s produce,
we tend our own garden unequally,
inconsistently
though gardens demand, preferring
constantly
li
loving attentions
*but humans are notoriously of poor
attention spans and we tend to tend
in spurs of moments,
some lasting decades
and thus or thus,
a poor epitaph to
our fallow falling fallen
humanity
