I am not particularly wise.
blueberry fool in a borrowed
yard, fingers knuckled in
the ground, in a place only
mottled birds care to worm
their way through the world.
Cindy implies that the point
is to make your work invisible;
the best mending is unseen
to an untrained eye although
anyone worth their salt
of the earth would recognize
its unintentional intent.
bundling armfuls of herbs named
for saints for tea for dreaming,
I clearly and thankfully posit
why anyone would have a lawn
instead of a possible garden.
once I was self-truant,
commissioned to lie,
in poses beyond my reach.
now I feel at home
in the earth. happily
greedy to eat all the fruit
you’ve chosen for me.
