I once was a series of flower gardens —
one on a hill sloping and cascading
pansies, petunias, phlox
encased by rocks harvested from the colorless back yard,
one on the side of the house —
red, orange, magenta pansies
weeded and watered by the tender and amiable hands
of my mother.
I was a flower garden in my dreams,
growing strong, blossoming in the spring,
lasting all summer.
Now I’m an herb garden
packed in a pallet leaning on the fence —
decorating the barrier between yards —
clay pots in hardware O-rings
set in the sun, water flowing through bottom holes
avoiding root rot from the recent rain,
sucking down water in the scorching heat.
At sunset, I will grow wild, go wild,
a field of flowers:
seed, sow, grow, go wild
a garden of wildflowers, contained,
contained for controlled spirit.
I will house spikes, buds, blossoms,
pinks, golds, violets, flaming oranges,
green stalks with varying leaves, thorns.
I invite birds and bugs
By Casey Green