Out back in the garden, knee-deep in kale,
her eyes seed baroque — old coffee stones
swirled around beds of composted worlds:
new grannies, wild herbs, and potato plants;
chicken bones (dog-gnawed); bees at pink roses;
crows carry on, a blue tongue flits at flies;
figs sway behind the dervishing hills hoist;
quince and blueberries, a dead brown dugite;
quacks, croaking, and throaty song birds; Hermes
toys a bandy in the shade of a blue
jacaranda; then the sun fades away
and rain plops down like paunchy Buddha bellies.
O, it’s a peaceable enough kingdom.
Through a spring miasma, her eyes kindle
fresh hope, a celestial prescience —
star fields in the black cathedral plasma:
no garden would exist without her mind
churning the raw green grist of the sublime.
- John Kendall Hawkins