Shabby Shangri-La surrounded by rot,
all your cracks are showing.

Strange weeds thrive, deeply
rooted and confident,

their alien forms growing up, out,
curling towards sunlight,
seeking the heat of living.

Aloe Veras browning in too-small pots,
the Birds of Paradise are falling apart.

Fence boards
swinging
in breezes,

rusty shed filled with rusted tools,
roof littered with last year's dead leaves.

I listen to the fading radios
of passing cars,

to the sudden
punctuating
wail of sirens on their way to someone else's pain,

to the sharp barks of nervous dogs
again again again.


Just as sudden as a changing mood it stops.


Silence.
Stillness.
A held breath is gently released.

But, look!
Irises are growing freely,
the persimmon tree stands lushly,
spreading its green canopy
over
me,
greening the light.

Wind-rustled leaves
whisper to windchimes
in secret harmony.

Curious little birds sing,
they sing, sing,

calling out in the rapturous sounds of flight.

I smell heady lilac, lemon, and unknown loamy things.

My skin is awake, my skin is
dappled with sunlight and
I can hear my heartbeat.
It beats.
It beats.

My garden is some kind of miraculous paradise.