From the earth a kingdom rose;  
Not of bricks nor made of mortar
But of seed, and soil and sun
And of sweat and stone and water.
A garden waits within my hand;
Tomorrow's paradise concealed.
All I need is time and land
Until my heaven be revealed.

Poppy sways on the edge of the garden
like some exquisite ***** dancing for her own pleasure
rather than crumbs.
She's full fed of her toxins, intoxicated
She drears  left then right, bows a bit....
The curves are stem so peculiar.
How she slipped perfect hooks and turns
into that no wood, indiscriminate thing
bending, looking so supple.
but it would snap in fragility.

Oh poppy, I sigh, chin resting on my palm....
thinking of the warm feeling of harvest.

55--is it the limit?
I’ve been slowing down, for sure.
Trying to economize, but my size
is growing.
No longer a tease; I’ve got bad knees.
I seize the day,
but please,
ask me if I prefer the elevator.
I might see you later--or not.
We can't count on tomorrow,
but I don't dwell in sorrow.
Now I hear more, see more,
even when I've lost my reading glasses. I know what life is for.
I grow things. I sing. Gladly
I do the dishes.
I have no birthday wishes. Wishes are for a future.  
I’ve removed things, and sewn a suture.
The way I was is history. That girl, with pretty shoes,
didn’t play the blues.
Now I listen, and I play those tunes.  
I’ve got no use for pretty, ‘cept for being pretty sure.
Sure, I've been wrong—wrong to wear those shoes, for one thing,
cuz my toes hurt.
Now, I know all the dirt. I’ve got things buried so deep
no one knows. But from the dirt, stuff grows.
I’m watering those plants, and wait til you see what springs up. Time ain’t up yet,
and there’s a green hill, and tall trees, and a sunset.

I pulled at the roots
but he didn’t budge
so I left him in the ground
and I sat and thought
“maybe he’s not ready”

People communicate too much.
Their arms, their feet, their eyes, their hands.
Each one tells a story.
Each one differs, interfering and weighing the air down.
Then the mouth opens and words fly out,
A whirlwind of ideas, opinions, tumbling, spinning, whipping out.
So much noise.
A message here, a message there.
The noise is blinding.

Outside the garden is buzzing.
Not the droning buzz of conversation,
But the peaceful hum and sigh of nature.
The leaves wave as you walk.
Flower petals whisper to you, succinct words that don't rattle.
Ladybirds, bumblebees, humming birds hurtle and whisk around,
And best of all, the garden listens.

I will not love for fear of losing,
And if a fondness should creep through,
Like ivy I’ll cut it back.