these days seeds are growing in me,
my garden is wild,
and i see from a distance,
i observe, i feel,
i let the mad luxury of life be inside,
mustard, poisonous frogs, deep rooting
grass, flies and bees and the jasmine bushes,
holly and ivy, elder and oaks, all kind
of tangled up weeds.
i don't give them water,
i am in waiting.
sometimes i hear a bird sing,
and i feel a short regret.
this is the awareness of a certain kind
of deadness, a life as a stone near
a river, a cactus in the desert.
there is no rain yet,
the clouds change forms
and the silvery fishes
hover still above the ground of all water.
then the night falls, it happens,
and i have nothing and all to do with it.
i listen, there are drums far away,
and the smoke from burning grass
drifts into my dreams.
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