The Sprouting

Every time I water the flowers

I water myself.

Every time I water myself

I flower.

Do the flowers know

who and what we are?

We are hybrids surely.

Our arms and hands

gradations of green,

our faces,

if one can call a blossom that,

a variety of shades

conducive to the light,

but our thoughts

are a cornucopia of colors.

Our feet below ground

are something of a riddle.

For instance, what are we to do

in all that dirt?

What if we have it wrong

and the soil is life itself

and we its propitious offspring?

Either way, we must learn

to care for ourselves.

Life has its seasons,

even one to die in,

if only to sprout again

in inexorable Spring.

Try seeing it like this:

We are the gardeners

of our selves

in as much as

we tend

to the garden 

within.

Now take note of the man

hovering above and below you.

To live inside his head

instead of inside this room

is equally precarious.

He sits at his computer

as if it were a piano

to see what music

he might make.

At his disposal:

a world of flowers

sprouting from

heart to head.

10/11/24