I Ask the Garden for Comfort

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So she pulls me down

beside the earthworm my

shovel halved, prods until

both sides flex. A few bees

remain to crawl the lupine's

purple throats and emerge

yellow, hawks to cry from

their nest in the oak's heart.

Yes, bougainvillea is more

fuchsia than thorn, nature

brutal, not cruel — watches

us rot, be eaten alive, but

won't recognize borders,

obey laws, work an hour.

Even when long thought

dead, she'll stay secreted

in fungi until our voices

fade, and then emerge

to green over footprints.