Wednesday, May 10, 2006


by Pam Crow

You worship in the dirt,
on your knees with a trowel
in your hand. You push
seeds into the earth, slowly,
the way hard truths push
into our hearts, take root there,
pressing the walls larger
to let more light in.

You tell me you don't know
any God, but what of this
conversation of flowers?
Bee Balm, Love in the Mist whisper
to lavender and pansies
yearly we return.

Here, too, is what we wish
we could control: aphids black
on the slender necks of roses,
silver gleams where slugs pass
munching the sweetest stems
right down to the ground.

When so many are gone
I think this is the place to be--
dividing, planting,
making room.

Copyright © Pam Crow

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