Summer garden scrapblog

This Garden
could be virtual
evidence of a Second-Life —
a web designed for another
self who wants to walk
a shadow along its twisted paths,
then meet her once true-self
returning to her own back door

hostas in clay-pots              scrolled blue  sea-blue lavender   slug          devoured flowers  Holy the host
. . . ess is behind         closed doors   Hosta  Host this ghost hostile sometime
                                                                   she  will try hospitality. . .

could thrill her
to an everywhere-garden, its
dapple across a childhood-green
no need of patterned order then —
you didn’t notice bindweed how it clung death over and around
that Dance du Feu, the avatar says

. . . and are the roses        sick  how  worms   turn   squirming along   earth  tunnels worm-holed    we
 seek another universe               where we can sing in the trellis                                  with the wrens . . .

how split her purple thoughts —
aquilegias a crack of seeds
from bonnets where she walks in lavender-fields
and breaking words arrive in single letters
on a blank page

. . . you try and spell them    in this blue reflecting sky          there even the sentence          is a mirage
 mirrored by that ramshackle wire-grass  yard-grass goose-grass          disturbance in the field . . .

wild by this tree
there’s a house of stories
patterned in dappled shade
under the oak — the Jet splits ears
and tells another tale

. . . Aah  a woman’s  screaming ecstasy   skateboards  the street  agony not knowing from where she flew
who would hear her cries or who would note them in a moving Blog . . .

Monster you’re a jungle animal
giant with green-splayed hands
how you crush our fan-tail fish
these images drown as soon as thought
yet how I long to be
a sprite cradled in the lap
of your palm

. . . stepping back by verbena   seeds sewn as words in ground  the garden room   red
geraniums neatly lined in pots on sill  one or two  leaves heart-shape the mind   she will
                                                           will it on to flower . . .