Garden Party

I’ve been pouring it on,
waiting for the wilt.

watching the grass for brown,
the bush for sag,
the flower for bleed.

it’s contagious, and when it finally happens,
I walk slowly, listening closely for the crunch.
the only timbre that will tell me my work is done.

I live like this for years.
pouring pouring, walking walking, listening listening,
until,

in just one moment, I catch my breath and the next, I smarten up.

It only takes ten days for the garden to restore and when it does
I realize this replacement is a stronger storm,
a new type of chaos, tearing at my chest and my calves.

I don’t know how I will live the few remaining years I have left.

I don’t know how my bones will rest in this earth,
spinning and spinning,
God’s breath making it that way,
for years and years,
and then in the next moment be swallowed by the sun,
and all of time, until
I’m back in the garden again,
poured out.