*
how many times
have I tried to
describe the
feeling of
tenderness
arising in me
in a poem
.
as I walked the
garden at night
at dusk or through
cloudy days when
your little heads
are reclined all
closed down as
.
children asleep
.
the daisies would
not hear me
nearing them
a motherless
woman being
the greatest
mother of all
.
*
I walk around my
small land where trees
abound and I have
a restlessness this year
I never had as if
my garden and I have lost
communication
.
but I attend the land a lot
.
I sit waiting as at
the bed of a sick child to
whom nobody hands
water exhausted
I tighten my hands one
with the other in
silent pain I look down
.
to the aging skin
to the black rim under
my nails its dirt
sticking to me my garden’s
way to hold onto me
.
.
*
the garden told me
it needs me
.
a poet to walk along
it to unlock
the unseen unheard
.
to feel home
while lost it needed
it told me
.
someone that will
walk it for
no reason at all
.
if not to be
it to breath along
.
*
.
words are tools
I use everyday to
.
shape the formless
.
to attempt I must say
to nail down what
.
has no form to lead
to the priceless experience
.
words I use to describe
the tangible world
.
in its impermanence
.
while I strive for the
untold and unseen
.
entertaining myself
.
analyzing things
dissecting them
.
as I was – once – a child
alone in the garden
.
in the hope that
observing something
.
up close – already gone –
.
may fling me
into what is
.
.
.
.
.
annamosca 