the garden, again

 

purple phlox peeks out
in ancient kalimba tones, cradled
by a cordovan earth, smelling like the good
ground island soil she was raised on ...

forsythia frolics first in a yellow line---
like a teenage cheerleader
bravely boasting
her first signs of womanliness--

while the beginnings of the sugar
magnolia petals open
into a mouthpiece for a saxophone,

slightly moaning
a funky new bossa nova.....

as soon as night falls,
cooler hard bebop sends
thin sheets of blinding
photosynthesis in leaves

waking, growing,
becoming-- as we
sleep through
the awakening

birds below window
at 5:15 am, signaling
we are awake

how the time is now--
is beside the point
of unplugged upliftment

hesitating no more
through the floor of the meadow,
she takes her plunge into both

the unknown and the known
escorted simply with one
sacred heart

glissade' ensemble', gran jete'
chine', chine', chine'
tambe', para boure'

'

~words/photo~kate lamberg (c) '18