Winters Garden  11//23/23
Covered in shredded leaves
and some decomposing straw.
Home now to dormant larva
buried deep in the earth
waiting for an inspirationalÂ
warming season.
It’s not officially winterÂ
but the chill in the air
carrying the scent of
burning wood andÂ
the sound of frosty leaves underfootÂ
beg to differ.
Impatiently I wait for rebirth
like the brown grass along the fences edgeÂ
and the spring crops planted in the fall.
No promise of germinated seeds
rising to words on my pages
fermenting the sugar of a story.
My mind is thick and yeasty
dependant on store-bought fodderÂ
like the birds wintering in the bushes.
A curious and flighty creature
baren of cause other than survival.
The Garden Is Gone