Something is growing in the garden bed
alongside the jasmine, alongside rows
of bittermelon that not even the aphids
will touch— Weed or wildflower, hybrid
or accidental, portmanteau of slug
and flower? I’d ask the clear-veined
dragonfly, I’d ask the hornet
but for its sting. I’d ask the night-
blooming cereus but it shows
its face only once a year.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Hoard
- Recursive
- Memory: A Tonic
- Cultivar
- Orality: Little Treatise
- Dearest one, I am Prince Ashily Quatama
- Refract
- Every Death
- There are words and there are words:
- Little Voyage
- Unleaved
- Atlantis Rising
- Anamnesis
- In the Ablative
- The wren in the lilac cycles through its songs at breakneck speed—
- If the future is a bird headed for a summit too far away to tell:
- Urgency
- Tending Fire