STILL, ALIVE

This is the moment of the garden:
peeling vines and fronds of laurel
this is the time of our chromachination.

This is the day we peer at the sunset
gaping at the wounded clouds. I want
you to know there is always a garden.

There will always be a garden. Violet
buds, squirrel tails, waves of somatotropin.
We are growing / time / incessantly,

in the blooms of blood-rich bruises.
This is the moment that a new child crawls
towards a sun-tipped buttercup.

And there will be crises. There will be terror
studding an unimaginable future. But
someone, somewhere, far out there

will always plant a garden.