When the grass rolls out, that’s my cue. What is it about Man’s desire to conquer and control nature, the feminine? I thank you Dear Garden, Dear Pollinators for the years of joy you have taught me and still teach me.
Once there was holy-grass and fungi in cycle. There were earthworms that surfaced, their multiple hearts in a collective beat below. Female spiders cast their nets, strewn diamonds in the sun- they dazzled young males, who would come strumming the cords of an older song that only she knew. Wee tits feasted on aphids along the fresh, tender stems, perched on the black lace. The dogs made offerings to the soil - undigested rice, sometimes corn. Small mountainous landscapes, encircled by slugs- their bodies flat in prostration. Rose thorns perforated the neighbouring foliage, a brail-talk to be read by tips of fingers, eyes closed. Their messages, maybe a warning. I thank you tenderly Dear Garden, I have listened intently to your cues.
