In Perpetual Spring



Gardens are also good places 

to sulk. You pass beds of 

spiky voodoo lilies   

and trip over the roots   

of a sweet gum tree,   

in search of medieval   

plants whose leaves,   

when they drop off   

turn into birds 

if they fall on land, 

and colored carp if they   

plop into water. 


Suddenly the archetypal   

human desire for peace   

with every other species   

wells up in you. The lion   

and the lamb cuddling up. 

The snake and the snail, kissing. 

Even the prick of the thistle,   

queen of the weeds, revives   

your secret belief 

in perpetual spring, 

your faith that for every hurt   

there is a leaf to cure it.


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