Tag Archives: nature

January Crickets

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

The year winter decided to play
in the sundresses from spring’s closet,
we left the windows open
to enjoy the breath of January azaleas
blooming in the flower beds.

A cricket snuck into your craft room,
and sang to us for hours,
somewhere under the stacks
of colored paper, under the bottles
of orange paint, the bits of curled wire,
the forest of projects you grew
behind a decorated door.

We searched for it for hours,
until my hands were glittered
and red yarn tangled your hair;
we even let the old mother cat
try to flush it from its artsy haven,
until her white fur was chalked
to pink and blue cotton candy,
and the cricket chirped at us.

That night, I curled beside you,
my hand on your breast and
your breath in my ear,
awake with a winter spring song:
cricket song, white azaleas asleep,
you asleep, a last jewel of glitter
bright on your breast beside my hand,
thinking I might let more crickets
sneak into the walls of our house.

Buddha in the Garden of Waste

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

You go inside for more drinks,
and I wander your garden.

You have left it to weed over.
Old perennials suck desperate
at the slums of the soil.
A plastic windmill sways
on a rusty stem, one vane lost.
All the rest hang their faded heads.

I found a fat Buddha
in a tangled flower bed;
hands upturned,
he invites the seasons back,
ever the optimist;
he laughs even as a vine
wraps her hands around his neck.

I’d like to reincarnate this garden.
I’d like to pull up
the clotbur and the crabgrass,
lay down fertile new soil,
plant dozens of little bombs
ready to explode in spring.

I’d scrub fat Buddha
and let him breathe. I’d fix the windmill,
I’d make barren into beautiful

but when you wobbled back,
with drinks in your hands,
I decided I always try
to fix wasted gardens,
and not this time, not this time.

Companion Plants

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

I have picked up so many books
lately about compost and gardens,
about how seed take root,
about the systems of life:
insect and loam, vine and water,
aeration and mulch.

This morning, I told you my plans.

You asked me if I wanted to
plant flowers or fruit,
something delicious to look at
or something delicious to eat

and I decided, if you were a seed,
you would be both.
I would make for you a bed
of decadent soil, sweet earth,
and bathe you with clear water.
I would blanket you in winter,
tend your fresh seedlings
and your first green shoots
just to see you bloom in spring.

One of my books taught me
about companion plants:
species that flourish best
when grown together.
They shield each other
from wind and blight,
roots intermingled,
a nourishing symbiosis
that yields healthier growth
for both.

I’d like to plant myself
beside you and see
what kind of garden
we could become.