I think of friends as trees, growing to and from one another, but you grew all by yourself.
You had scars and scratches on the bark. Your leaves hit the light like no other tree did. Our branches grew out to the same sun.

I think of a garden when i think of you, i think of strong stone pathways, crossing carefully through flowerbeds of secrets, laughter, and long face-time calls. Whenever we walked through that garden together, i counted every step and i watched every flower sprout carefully. I would water them and you would make sure they got enough sunlight, you always insisted on carrying the watering can. I carried the shovel high on my shoulder, it was heavy but i didn’t mind, the shovel was shiny and sharp.  

I remember sharing secrets with the snapdragons, the way we danced next to the daffodils, how we laughed with the lilacs, cried behind the carnations, how we imagined new lives beneath the irises.

I’ll never forget the way your boots squeaked when you threaded through our garden. I always loved the way they sounded, i never told you though. You always say i pay too much attention to things.

We both hated leaving the garden, but we knew we would come back the next day, we always did.

Sometimes people wanted to see our garden.

We didn’t want people in our garden, but we weren’t rude hosts. We showed them the snapdragons, the daffodils, the lilacs, the carnations, and even the irises. He didn’t think the lilacs were the right color purple yet and she didn’t know we even grew carnations and they all insulted the irises.

But we didn’t mind.

They wanted to plant their own seeds in our garden. But it wasn’t theirs.

Our garden had grown. Plant life filled the fields, flowers bloomed bolus petals, fruit was ripening trees were treacherously tall, there was color. I liked blue. Your favorite was green. I liked green.

One day it stormed. It didn’t rain. Rain was good. It stormed. It boomed and it clapped and it roared. I was scared but you weren’t. I wasn’t scared.

Things were different after the storm.

When we came back. The fence had fallen down. Fruits were bruised. Vegetables were browned. Trees had branches snapped off. Flowers were wilted. The soil was flooded. But the stone remained untouched.

You didn’t water the daffodils but i didn’t mind i just stepped on the snapdragons but you didn’t like that.

Flowers started wilting but you couldn’t see it from the outside. We forgot to water them. We said we would remind each other, but we didn’t come back to the garden as much.

And this time we came back you didn’t want to carry the watering can. I even watered them this time. Sometimes you took the shovel, but you dragged it on the ground. It chipped the stone but you said we would fix it later.

We couldn’t fix it. Hell, we didn’t even try.

This time we sulked by the snapdragons, we determined damage next to the daffodils, we loathed the lilacs, we cut the carnations, we still imagined new lives by the irises.

Your boots didn’t squeak the same. I could barely stand it anymore.

By now we both stopped coming to the garden together. You left before I saw you.
I started seeing you in other places. You dressed differently in other places.

Your hair no longer kisses your shoulders. It’s tied back tight.
You wear jeans with patches covering holes in which only I know exist.
Your eyes are locked like the gates.
Your boots don’t even squeak anymore.

I still go to the garden alone
I don’t know if you come anymore
But i never harvest the crops we planted together.
I leave the gate unlocked.

I think of friends as trees, growing to and from one another. But your ax cries bullets. And our trees grow outward to two different suns.

The sun burns the sky.The steps
crush the red of the leaves.It's an
incomprehensible mystery in the
structure of the leaving green.The
sound drums the holy bell of light.
It's an unbearable restlessness in
the structure of white.Red and white
snapdragons smother their preys.

In the shade
where the pain of fading out
is all about the colours sat light upon the leaves.
Where each blossom grieves
where the rosebud bleeds into another day
and snapdragons snap and snap away
I shall stay.

Watching honey bees at play and dragonfly's that do not snap
but snap back at snapdragons that take a bite
of the slight breeze that whispers through my hair.
I've been here before,
here is where the dream began and in this dream I can
believe,
that every petal on the bloom does not have to grieve
and that 'Shiva'
does not destroy the beauty to be found
silently sprouting from the heavenly ground.

The foxglove that was never worn by man nor beast
is not the least and most of all
when snowdrops fall they do not drop but droop.
The bandicoot
who does not care watches the wind blow through my hair
and then retires back to its lair
Soon I will be back in mine
but one more time I'll stand and look
before fading in again
to the pain
of fading out.

Nestled beneath a bush so snug and warm
Waiting for the light of day
The little snapdragon sits so torn
While the fairies with the roses play
She wishes she could be like them
So free and full of light
She watches as their glow comes near
But then it's gone and out of sight

I am from too long grass
that left muted green stains on my knees
From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons
which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers

I'm from ash grey two by fours
which were all together fun to climb on
but gave nasty splinter when they were mad

I'm from the woodchips and sand
that provided me an elaborate landscape
in which to house my boundless imagination

I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke
that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky
and propelled my rocket to high heaven
or so it seemed to my eger eyes

I am from Thursdays
from green and red rhubarb leaves
and dirt under every fingernail
I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes
at the fence accross the ally
and running haphazardly from angry neighbors

I'm from lasagna and jell-o
candels on Christmas eve
and the squirt bottle of water
my only defense against ants

I am from obscure old families
who came over like so many others
and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church
I'm from woodwinds and piano strings
and never a silent moment
From reading aloud and reading alone
and from those who did the reading

I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories
And I've always been headed towards
Where I'm from.

Snapdragons are one of those
flowers that wilt in springtime, not
because there is
anything wrong, it's just
that their season is over.

I wonder whether
snapdragons ever fall
in love with the hawthorns,
though I really shouldn't
have to.

I know all too well the
feeling of having to love
someone perennially as
you both alternate dying,
for lack of rain,
for want of sun.

Crossing the field
One foot after the other,
Grass under my feet,
Clay staining my skin red
With each heavy step.

I drag along,
Instead of flying past like I once did.
My each step is slow and hesitant,
Instant of a leap and a lunge
Towards whatever the future may hold.

And grasshoppers
And little moths and fireflies
Float and hop around me,
As the sun settles behind the Earth,
And the moon rises into the sky.
The grass is green, but yellowing,
And leaves decay at my feet.

Spirals of red and orange leaves
Spin around me a thousand times,
And the falling stars caress
My moonlit skin.

I am the night time,
And I don't want to be.
I am when the wolves and coyotes sing mournful songs,
I am when the foxes and cats come out to hunt.

I am the night time,
And I creep across golden fields
As slowly as the gold fades to gray,
Where the sky touches the earth.

And I want to be warmed by the sunlight,
But I am shivering and cold,
Within my shadow realm.

I sit within the tall grasses,
Amongst the trees that sway in
The harsh winter winds.
I feed off moon flowers and snapdragons,
Yearning to find a daffodil for myself.

And the warmth of the sun calls me home,
But I want to be bask in the light,
Instead I blow away,
And I disappear.

And as I prance and spin in the evening,
Casting rays of blue twilight across the landscape,
My brown eyes catch your blue,
And while I believe you can't see me,
I hope to the moon and back that you do.

I am the spirit of the night time,
But your eyes are like the day's sky,
And I could stare into your sunlight lined iris's
For eternity upon eternity.

And with fluttering wings,
I painted you stars in the royal violet and navy sky,
I prayed that you'd make me yours,
But I was impatient
And you fell along with me

Into the realm where
Landscape meets starscape,
And the blues of the night
Met the greens of the day,
And I'll love you forever
Where the sky touches the earth.

it used to be daisies
under shining droplets of sun
transparent sadness
trapped in spiderwebs
now he's left on the
bleak balcony
with only his snapdragons
shaped like flower skulls
living for a tomorrow
no one believes in

The roses in the garden are beautiful but somewhat mean
They think of themselves as the kings and queens
With a superior air about them they put others down
As they flaunt about the garden in their thorny crowns

So all the flowers got together
To form a picket line
Feeling they were being unfairly treated
Or so felt the dandelions

The hydrangeas overflowing
In decadent display
Are not timid, they prefer
To make heads turn their way

The single, reserved tulips
Are certainly a bit more shy
While still drawing attention
By the way they kiss the sky

Every flower in the garden
Think their own beauty could run the show
That's what each of them wrote on their sign
To let the roses know

This trouble with mothers nature
Will be written about in books
The uprising in the garden
The day the earth was shook

Back before those thorny reds
It seemed everything was bliss
So the weeds were hired for a hit
By the sneaky, scheming iris

The weeds though were sprayed the day before
So they never stood a chance
They were knocked out of the running
When they themselves danced with death

The white picket fence was knocked down
Which set the snapdragons free
Creating quite the havoc
In this wild garden mêlée

This day will always be remembered
Made sure by the forget-me-nots
When all the flowers got together
To show the roses what they've got

gardening has taught me a gentleness that no parent ever could.
the way my hands work roots apart to make space for new dirt
shows me that i have the capacity to be soft, even when
the world has given me an exoskeleton of impenetrable emotion.

i have days where i can’t imagine doing anything except laying in the dark, but my plants need the sun just as much as i do.

there’s this appreciation of small things that comes with gardening, this ability to notice even the tiniest changes.
cheering on the little new leaf of a plant that hadn’t grown anything in months. flowers blooming to prove you’ve done a good job.

the world is dissolving but they just keep on growing.

there are snapdragons outside my window and though the cold weather killed the rest of my garden, they are thriving. pushing out the brightest colors i’ve seen all season.
nothing will work for every plant, the care i provide is vastly different even among two that sit next to each other on the shelf.
nothing will work for every person.

the gentleness i’ve learned keeps my hands soft towards others, like when i put bandaids over scratches or zip up dresses or intertwine our fingers.

we could all stand to learn something from nature. how forgiving it can be, how gracious, how bright. flowers are what we wish on, representations of the best and worst moments of our lives. our successes, our losses.

nothing is forever, but god does nature sure last a while.

i.
my first idol was gene kelly
i wanted to tip my hat to frilly women
creases in my trousers so sharp
they could be used as weapons
i would smell like cedar
shaving cream
cigarette smoke
dank alleyways where bruises are bestowed
and everyone has a second
stomach-down on an orange **** carpet
chin in hands
til my elbows were rubbed raw
watching a gender i could never perform
pressed into the seams of a slate-blue suit

ii.
my grandmother equates food and love
but won't try anything green
or tomatoes
or bell peppers
or brown bread
or breakfast
but grandma, the waffles
the frozen cinnamon ones
you had to wait long excruciating moments for
drenched in syrup, not even the real stuff
and cookies after lunch
and ice cream for dessert
and white bread
with a wink, a "shh don't tell"
to this day i cannot eat
without the long fingers of guilt
counting my ribs like beads

iii.
there is a house
rising out of the backyard of my grandparent's house
it is one story taller
and fifty years newer
it stands on my grandmother's rose bushes
it stands on her pansies
her snapdragons
the beauty bark paths
and the small trinkets that defined their edges
i bet you can't even see
the patch of grass where grandpa parked his truck
for twenty years and plants grew
all sparse and yellow and shriveled
that house is built on top of the three or four trees
we played in, thought were a forest
the hundreds of pinecones
some as big as my head
some as small as my thumb
once i drove past this malignant mansion
and wanted to throw fists at it
to challenge it
i waited for a long time
waiting for it to grow while it thought i wasn't looking
for it to engulf my grandparent's house
which suddenly seemed tiny and brown in comparison
the next time i am there
i expect i will tiptoe
and wait for my child-self to appear
so we can warn each other
of the coming ruin

I’ve Said Too Much**

if you think of me
    like i think of you
then i will come to you,
find my way from this deep, deep abyss;
find my way
    to your touch
        your warm embrace
            your strawberry lips.

oh no, i’ve said too much.
i’ve opened my dreams
and fantasies
to your silence.
    and i wonder

who stole your heart?
who left you broken
on the floor with lost innocence,
flayed skin
    bloodied bones
        with chains and locks
            on all your doors?

this cruel life.
    thief
        painmaker
my hands around his neck.
it's for my relief,
i know i can't save you.

oh no, i’ve said too much
now you know my anger,
opened my hatred
to your silence
        and i wonder

if you ever dream of me
    the way i dream of you?
smiling,
    barefoot
running carefree
through a field of wild flowers-
red poppies
    blue bells
        yellow daffodils
            violet snapdragons.
just happy.
cause then i would come to you.
find my way to
    your touch
        your warm embrace
            your strawberry lips.

oh no, i‘ve said too much.
i’ve opened my desires
    dreams
        fantasies
to your silence.

Aztec Warrior 1.3.16

Under streetlights in the suburbs,
Your eyes are illuminated by the moonlight
And you lean me up against the whitewashed wall
In the hazy temperature of an August midnight.
Closed eyed and open hearted,
The hour slows in time to savour youth
And our shadows entwine like the ivy beside us.
When my cheeks are flushed to coral
And your eyes shine like snapdragons,
You toss me your grass-stained tshirt
As I twirl an ivy leaf between my fingers.

Garden to my left,
colors so bright
the snapdragons and sweet peas
nod their watercolored heads
in the morning's silken light
chutney-colored wall
leading to my door
shoes neatly stacked
with toys in baskets
upon the concrete-patterned floor
plants align the window sill,
marking the flipside to my kitchen
reminding me of wafting tastes
in the form of stir-fry
or juicy chicken
to the right
a pumpkin-spiced ball of fur
my Ginger nestled tight
body rising and falling
in deep slumber's purr
his springtime pillow
puffed just right
The laughter I hear
fills my ears and heart
as children, (mine, too)….play
and I sit with my legs upon the
Tupperware chair
and contemplate the day
Between my palms Turkish coffee
entices with its delicious steam
and here come the thought police
to interrupt my desert dream

Back off *******,
I'm not going to jail.

I've always used bright crayons,
and I've always picked,
  very interesting & bold options,
I try to use various alternative methods,
uniquely me and yet relatable,
I know I am different,
I'm OK with that,
I totally embrace my "weird"
and my "normal"
every part of me is beautiful somehow.

Though I didn't always I see it that way,
I've said it before "hindsight is insight "
so it all helps,
to paint in words more accurately.

I sometimes apply more technique,
to obtain a darker shade,
for example,
I use crosshatching,
or use more pressure to darken,
add light where needed,
there must be more than 50 shades of grey,
the way people describe things so differently yet the same,

Thoughtfully I'd enhance blood red,
gentle but deliberate strokes,
so many lovely colors in a telluric bed,

I especially love my old,
Vermont wildflower garden,

So I don't only use crayons,
I use sharpies, pencils and paint,
anything available,
whatever tools are required,
sights, sounds, tastes,
all play a role,
necessary ingredients,
some things to omit,

A very special thanks,
to the blossoms of that garden,
lovely lady slippers, snapdragons,
daises and lupines,
every season just so breathtaking,
always sharing and imparting sage wisdom,
those amazing forests and animals,
strangers friends and family,
teachers are everywhere & everything,
it's every song I'll ever sing,

I did not even mention,
the gift the waters,
give,
frozen beauty this time of year,
icicles and snowflakes,
black ice and cold dark dangerous depths,
No,
freezing temperatures won't deter a poet,

We must nurture poetry,
becuz poetry is everything,
in nature and music,
and life and love,
so even if you think your poetry *****,
keep writing,
that will change,
with honing skills,

If you're writing then you must see the world like a poet,
can you imagine a world without it?
I know I can't.

Did you know onions make a lovely imprint,
on Easter eggs?

Sometimes I just have to describe it,
remember into the past,
draw that vein up,
write it out,
word *****
****
( I have 22 poems in the "works" )
there I said it,
page after page after page,
purge for yourself and for others,
use your God given voice,
and if you got any talent?

It ain't like it's a choice,
look out world,
cuz maybe you're going to,
touch a lot of people,
and not even know you have the ability,
and when you do?

Well you just want to share,
not for the credit,
not for acclaim or false feigned affection,
not for any Earthly praise,
becuz,
you keep hearing that sound,
an so you gotta get it down,
when you want to sleep,
and you just can't think
cuz it keeps coming like a flood,
like no chance to blink,
I know you know poets,
you feel me?

And honestly,
I am only interested in coloring the truth,
so I will use a pencil if that's what I see,
or an eraser,
if necessary,

I use my truth,
your truth,
OUR truth,
to color all my poetic words.

early morning,
with
cup of kenyan blend.
i step outside,
to meet my day.

all soft,
misty drizzle.
cocooning the view,
to the koi pond
and slick driveway.

stepping stones,
are
soft wet coins
on greenback lawn.
dewed and glistening new.

the last
of the snapdragons,
weep in bright tears
of beauty.
the portulaci
have closed their
faces to the world,
to await the
returning sun.

in the pond,
the koi swim,
and glide
like solar flashes
caught while bathing.
bright moving wonder
on the colourless day

and as i watch
the surface becomes
hypnotic as water drops
create ring,bisecting
ring, bisecting ring.
concentricity,
most exquisite.

the smell of jasmine
eucalypt and coffee
mix and mingle with
exhaust and salted iodine.

sound is muted.
birds, whisper this morning.
even the kookaburras call,
in stuttering short chuckles.
the sea, so close, is but a murmur, a chinese whisper
on the frail wind.


the small grey cat,
comes to sit with me
nose, aquiver,
ears swiveling
to and fro.

a pause before,
harrumphing
and stalking
back into the
dry, cosy, warmth.

i soon follow....
leaving the day,
to it's softness.

Elegy to Val’s Husband

I knew she was not a rose
was never sharp enough, and she didn’t believe
in snapdragons. She grew tomatoes.

She said
How pretty they would be,
touching the stems
how tall,
but I don’t know if he will get to see them.

I wish she would grow morning glories
and sleep through the night.

All we are,
delightfully lost.
Is that all it is?
Heading feet-first into sunsets.
Whirlwinds.
We crash, grab,
forget to blink,
rely on breath alone.
Here words tumble in a torrent,
recycle in your mouth
and back out again.
Clichés cannot die.
On a loop,
a worn-down yo-yo.
I roll them out for you
on a goldenrod carpet,
you skip across them
as though they are red-hot coals.

What set you off
like a sparkler in the night?
The sea brings us love,
vice versa.
Waves like mounds of sugar
embrace your torso
in a way I can only dream of.
Camera exhausted
under the weight of today,
puddles of polaroids,
enough to smother the floor.
I smell snapdragons,
candy fizzing
on both of our tongues.
Soaked.

Fade to black.
Your language
is blossom
slinking into my ears.
Wet sand
slips in a mustard waterfall
through our fingers
and I trip over my T’s and P’s.
I’ll keep your smile
locked in my pocket
for black-cloud days.

A triplet of cartwheels,
sticky palms
and panting as if
you’ve run a marathon.
Give it a go…
I try and collapse,
a soppy sprawled mess
gawping at the sky,
before blue eyes
smash into mine
and I fall again.
Dripping.

In-between seconds.
Flaccid strands of hair,
frizzled spaghetti
clings to your neck.
The blonde grenade
I keep writing,
cannot control
but adore to see explode,
catch the thirteen
or more little fragments
of you,
keep them ‘til next time.

When you leave
I can follow your footprints,
mementos back home,
tread where you stood
and exuded light.
We sit cross-legged,
water dribbling over our toes.
I memorise your heartbeat,
you plonk your head
on my shoulder.
Minutes wash away.
Stop the clock.

The gardens are laid in rows and lines
Laid out like a colourful maze,
The gates are open from eight ‘til nine,
All week, and Saturdays.
But Sundays they open the gates ‘til ten
They are lit by coloured lights,
I like to wander the strange pathways
But prefer to go by night.

I tell my Sally she ought to come
But she never has, ‘til now,
Her head is always stuck in a book
She’s what you might call highbrow.
One Sunday night, she said she’d come
We got to the gates by eight,
The lights were twinkling in the groves
And the Moon had risen late.

We walked by the beds of petunias,
Snapdragons and daffodils,
The heady perfume was rising up
And strange, but it gave me chills.
We took a fork where the wood was dense
With natives, bushes and trees,
But Sally tripped by a eucalypt,
And ended skinning her knees.

We sat on a garden bench nearby
And mentioned how quiet it was,
The pathway there was a yellow brick
Just like the Wizard of Oz.
We thought, ‘We’re the only ones in here,’
By ten, but she couldn’t walk,
I said, ‘We’ll wait ‘til the gardener comes,
We’ll sit on the bench and talk.’

We sat for over an hour out there,
We sat discussing things,
Mother-of-pearl, the state of the world,
The cost of engagement rings.
But then a shadow had passed us by
Behind a hedge and a tree,
And out there popped the head of a man,
‘Are you two looking for me?’

He couldn’t have been but four foot two,
But hidden behind the trees,
His body never came into view
But he had two pointed ears.
I told him Sally had skinned her knees
And she couldn’t walk just then,
He said he’d send for his volunteers,
‘But beware the Pathways Men!’

An hour went by and the lights went out
We began to fear the dark,
Then three young misses in party dress
Danced up from the outside park.
‘We’ve come to carry your lady home,
Follow us if you may,’
Then plucked poor Sally out of my arms,
And danced down a strange pathway.

I don’t know why it escaped my eye,
It hadn’t been there before,
I tried to follow but found myself
Entangled, both foot and claw.
My path was blocked by three strange men
Linked up, to stand in my way,
‘Don’t think to enter the faery glen
Or your woman will waste away.’

I’ve searched the gardens, I’ve searched the grounds
I’ve searched in the nights and days,
I’ve called for Sally a hundred times
And lost myself in the maze.
But late at night there’s an eerie sound
Like someone playing a lute,
Down at the end of some strange pathway
Where they grow forbidden fruit.

David Lewis Paget

This is a synn.
Synns live in scary sculptures under spider webs in spooky science labs.
Synns eat sour strawberries, smoked sausages, and snapdragons.
Synns send smoke signals, stare at nothing in particular, stalk their prey, and swim in the sea.
Synns like to sing sad songs, to sit around campfires, and to grin at strangers with sharp smiles.
This synn scratched symbols on my arm.
It slings sharp objects at me and stands over me while I sleep.

Standing, ankle deep
In Snapdragons, through red lips,
She's spitting out  flames.

-Jamie F. Nugent

Most people skip clean over the true beauty in life,
They pick roses or peonies over daisies.
Is it because there is a higher social ideal of the overly common gestures of romance that they are valued more?
Even from childhood I've chosen the wild flowers,
Heather,foxglove,snapdragons and daisies,
Not because they're available without visiting a shop or becoming an advanced botanist,
But because they are wild and make the world more beautiful...Just like she does.

There's a place I  visit in the back of my mind
It doesn't exist, but I think they call it "home"
Here I am not so easily bound and confined
And I am free to walk wherever I wish to roam

Wistfully I long for the refreshing rains
Accompanied by soft sunlight and a gentle breeze
That sweeps over the lush, green plains
And fills the forests of sky-scraping trees

The daisies and snapdragons blossom all year
Even when covered in a blanket of pale snow
The vibrant colors make the world seem so clear
And every surface gleams and glows

God's great palette paints the endless sky
Soaring beyond the horizon are birds in flight
The clouds are tinted, dipped, and dyed
And fade as stars encompass the night

If you're special, I might imagine you there
But I usually travel by myself, all alone
Where I can breathe in the fresh, sweet air
In the safest and most freeing place I've ever known

The only problem with my hideaway and escape
Is that it is indeed a hopelessly false reality
I plead to see its likes in any form or shape
But must abandon my grave irrationality

Dead leafs in the grass
Candles flicker in the breeze
Dust scatters with each step
Roses had a funeral for the
  Lilies that passed away
While the orchids cried the
  night away
Over the snapdragons that
  never got to play
And blindly we keep going
Walking willingly in chains
Whats the point of breathing
When we march with the feet
  of the dead

happy little snapdragons
i love  the faces i see
standing in rows
like little solider boys
at play
all knowing the joke
but not sharing the secret

you smile and wag your dragon heads
but not your earthbound tails.

you are an endless delight to me...

There seems to be
more poetry
written in the winter.

Poets have
better things to do
in the summer.

We like the warm evenings,
drinking beer, smoking cigars,
talking about poetic things,

thus summers do not lend
themselves well to writing,
so we save it all for winter and fall.

Consequently, our writings
tend to be more melancholy,
more depressed in nature,

O my mistress
how I long for your touch,
he scribbles on his pad,

let me feel thy supple *******
and hold thee tenderely
in my loving arms.

Let me hear thy whisper
taste thy gentle lips, and sense
the warmth of thy smile.

See, the cold weather poets
tend to be the weakest of poets.
Poetry takes discipline.

The poet must learn
to sit in his dark, dusty corner
even on the best gardening days,

even when the birds are chirping
and the sun is out,
even when the breeze is perfect

because the poet must learn
to write for himself,
not only for his winter readership.

He must take his pen into the fields,
must count the snapdragons
and wild daisies.

Like mother, he must learn
the simple act of trusting inspiration,
not as a ***** but as a lover

who in return for faithfulness gives,
in return for kindness smiles,
and in return for loyalty loves.

Oh gardener of the soul. Do you smell of two lovers alone? The roses you planted are now intertwined, kissing only when the breeze blows.

Oh gardener of the mind. Do you smell of explosive happiness? The lilies you sowed into the ground are now blooming violently. Like explosions in July, they gather temporary admirers, if only for a day. If only for a moment. Making the loneliest of people smile at the defiant nature of these flowers in winter.

Oh gardener of the heart. Do you smell of copacetic feelings and romantic sunsets? The flowers you planted for your bouquet are now too beautiful to cut. Yet your lover's eyes twinkle at the snapdragons and peonies you so lovingly implanted into the ground.

Gardener of the universe. You planted gentle flowers and weeds atop my roof, they grew from the rain that you watered. They give me hope. They give me a sense of that my aching bones and ailing organs will serve as fertilizer for the flowers you grow. And I am okay with that.

nectar in long spur
flowers look like snapdragons
temperate toadflax

You're not allowed to be wilted daisies
Adolf trump is gunning for woke lib'ral hacks
make like killer Triffids sting like blazes,

This grifting abuser of old ladies
be sticky Venus flytraps catch this rat,
you're not allowed to be wilted daisies

How can you take on these fascist crazies
no chance by being bumbling weedy crap
make like killer Triffids sting like blazes.

This narcissi projects his dark places
make like badass snapdragons snap them back
you're not allowed to be wilted daisies.

There's time for tumbling tumble-**** lazy
when this beast is well and truly zapped
make like killer Triffids sting like blazes,

This orange beast who intones " obey me "
Vote and vote and vote against him, he'll snap
You're not allowed to be wilted daisies
Make like killer Triffids sting like blazes.