by Amy Gerstler
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.
or a bluebird or lady's slipper
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