Talking Back to the Mad World
I will not tend. Or water,
pull, or yank,
I will not till, uproot,
fill up or spray.
The rain comes.
Or not. Plants: sun-fed,
moon-hopped, dirt-stuck.
Watch as flocks
of wild phlox
appear, disappear. My lazy,
garbagey magic
makes this nothing
happen.
I love
the tattered
camisole of
nothing. The world
runs its underbrush
course fed by
the nothing I give it.
Wars are fought.
Blood turns.
Dirt is a wide unruly room.
Sarah C. Harwell, “Talking Back to the Mad World” from Sit Down Traveler. Copyright © 2012 by Sarah C. Harwell. Reprinted by permission of Antilever Press.
Source:
Sit Down Traveler
(Antilever Press, 2012)