My hands are in the garden,
waking flowers and yards
of old rotted leaves
left over
for bugs
to hide.

Some are eyelash soft
darting away in a hurry
others simply blink their eyes
and look at me-

no coffee?
what’s the rush.

But regardless,
I’m waking
and tipping the coffins
of deceased plants
pulling their little bodies out
and dropping in my morgue bag

their last resting place
my trash.

What ever secret they knew
is gone now,
what ever whimper of sadness
their leaves might know
how water made them laugh
and wind whipped their children
loose to fly-

yes, it’s vague and strange
mixing this soil with
the sudden red blood
from my hand.

3 May 09