- Vol. 07
- Chapter 12
I have a garden in my head.
If you opened my skull, bouquets would sprout.
I sit lotus fashion, my center of gravity
grafted to the earth, trimming, irrigating, fertilizing
wispy weedy whims that flourish
with horticultural patience into projects,
strategies, and future deeds.
I cull and harvest thoughts that render
long, scintillating monologues.
I tend random images that my fingers
doodle on scraps of paper and table tops.
I raise my arms above my head
and with tentative fingers
trace burgeoning cerebral branches,
delighting in their crinkled or smooth leaves,
curling strands of vine around my pinky,
brushing a bud’s tight coils that are too new,
too naïve to risk exposure to a critical I.
From the terrarium of my skull,
green thoughts grow winsome
like the hairs on my arms and legs.
Some harden into bunions, others
remain cartilaginous like my ears and nose.
I exude universes and seed them
from my dreams with persimmons and rue.