In the Garden

Even the bad seed
has a reason for sprouting
which sounds pretty good
when repeated
in the hothouse of the mind.

We tell our stories
until they seem right:
The sun was hot
through the glass,
I was waist high in compost
and not going anywhere
so I ate the gardener.

Now no one waters me.
I grow drier every day,
persecuted
for my stand
against oppression
by those who wander
in and out of my world.

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5 thoughts on “In the Garden

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