for Lisa Alvarado
The garden is filled with souls whose bodies are only seen when asleep,
writhing and curling like the wind around the bending leaves of trees
without roots, at work on the steps of their making, laboring with love
of life and all that can be done if it is lived happily and with sincerity.
When the garden overflows with rain the ditches rush downhill, out
to the desert where no one needs to live save those who only live where
solitude is bright in its darkness, a glow of filling the eyes with a need
that no longer has a name. And there are houses up there where family
occurs and children grow without harm in a way even animals can be
alive. I have never been there. I don’t even know where it is. But it is.
(22 December 2010)
copyright 2010 by Floyce Alexander