Dear Joe

A letter to a place in my heart

Dear Joe,
it's monday 
nearing 6 a.m.
i'm alone on the front apron--
everything is weighted down
by water, so,
i'm also soaked.
it's so dim 
i can hardly differentiate
pale blue phlox
from candy stripe.

i'm alone, for now,
recovering from 
a weekend's demolition:
spilled mulch
barren tables
strewn baskets
little cups of rosemary
and sweet mint 
stuck in with the pinks.  

the sun's dimmer switch
sets the space between
the clouds aglow.
Night shift Nate
points out its
beauty as he heads 
to his old gray pickup
see ya tomorrah.

it's about that time
as i'm pulling 
windburnt snapdragons
from the monster rack,
that i feel my brain
fully disconnect --
i'm not solving
world peace 
in the garden center
but doesn't it seem like
everything starts 
from within? 

every place,
mighty or miniature,
is a universe 
in and of itself.
here is our scattering 
of wildflower spirits
struggling to make it,
growing up from the 
cracks and the endcaps. 

Sometimes, Joe, 
when I'm shrinking 
the Monrovia, I spy
you moving again
between the
roses and the pampas grass
face calm,
pace unhurried.

every person is
a universe 
unto themself, 
mighty and miniature, 
with 
their lavender scents,
their morning glories,
their moments of
birdsong and storms.

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