Garden

I can paint an impassioned trip down memory lane

as sunflowers growing with wild abandon along the windowsill.

I can pluck each charming bloom,

heavy-headed and bent to the dirt.

I can watch petals flutter down,

dark seeds embedding themselves deep for conscious growth.

I can lay my head down on fertile earth

and let the roots you’ve planted rock my memory to sleep.

I can rise as Venus

on the bathroom wall of some

hourly rate hotel room.

I can play my pulse,

straight from my wrist,

bright and loud.

I can drown in the beat

and slice my tender feet

on the glass in your garden.

I can leave a trail –

breadcrumbs to salivate over

and still,

I’d expect you to pull away,

black tires spinning

and vanishing over the horizon.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for their prompt.

I can drowThan in the beat

and slice my tender feet

on the glass in your garden.

I can leave a trail –

breadcrumbs to salivate over

and still,

I’d expect you to pull away,

black tires spinning

and vanishing over the horizon.