My garden rests
naked. Heavy, laden with rain,
autumn-drained from its growth
and summer-serfdom of daylight
from the restless chlorophyll mechanics
grinding green through its roots and its limbs
to twigs into leaves.
from the nagging persistence of warmth
to grow, and to grow
to capture the day. To always improve.
Now garden rests in reek of decay…
… and we are clear the shrubs for the trees
bending my father exclaims
“Do the best you can,
don’t postpone what could be done today*
he chain me to duty
with his lutheran zeal
by working through the day
“Use daylight for what’s good”
and like the faithful servant
watched his master’s garden
rewards will come through obedience —
“Doing your best”.
but as the woods reeks with decay…
… my father died a bitter man,
unrewarded, bound to his duty,
still living through work he never could finish.
I try to drink from this darkness —
breathe in the fall, its rot
to disconnect, finding my rest
from summer enslavement of growth
from chlorophyll green
and clearing for trees.
I have my last hosting at toads today, and it’s an old favorite. Using flashbacks in poetry and especially the use of a device such as a scent or a sound to pull you into the flashback.
November 14, 2019