I spend a lot of time designing
a garden of impossible in my head.
It’s filled with “What If” annuals and “If Only” perennials.
The ground is not particularly well established,
layers and layers of cheap soil, but it is well-tilled.
It’s hard to distinguish a seeded plant
from a weed, so I let it all grow.
One section, on the western side,
bred a new species of “If I Had” blossoms.
Years ago it overtook the plot, but now I prune
the vinery. I bundle the creeper
into a big brown lawn bag,
making sure it never touches my heart.
Regret is a lot like poison ivy,
but it lasts for years, blistering the valves shut.
The eastern edge of the garden
is a wild collection of dreaming.
Skinny tall plants with big budding heads amidst
a flooding of ground cover. “When I”
is particularly
fertile this year; it grows through drought seasons.
“If I Meet Her” keeps seeding and
reseeding itself.
This May, there were twice as many shoots as last.
Right in the middle of this common greenery
is the collision of truth. “I Am”
blossoms
do not move their heads like sunflowers seeking light,
but swivel side to side every day, pinched between
“What Was” and “What Will Be.” Sometimes,
they lock their gaze on the blue sky and
do not twist at all. Even though the hose rarely finds that part
of my garden, they have the most persistent need to grow.
They’re the blooms I cut and take inside.
Bursts of fuschia and lime green by my bedside,
and near the kitchen sink. Right now, I am sticking my nose
into the “Just Me” petals. They
smell like rain and sunshine.
