Gardens
I was, as you were, an egg in blossom, a blood sac flowering in
an amniotic garden. I was, as you were, an embryonic bud
that also budded tuberosities, buds that later became head
and limbs.
Why then does my mother not imprint herself in me,
she who carried that coded replicating jigsaw of humanity
for so long?
Why does my father not ever feel to be a portion of my being?
A biological milieu shaped, genetics built their blocks
yet where a mother could have created rooms of inception and
potential there she remains not.
Beyond inherited appearance parents leave no inward hand
or footprints.
I think of clay, being sculpted, molded, made to be a certain
form and identity.
The artists hands impart, shapes a vision, both thought and
imagination in motion.
Yet gestation and birth is an ongoing separation; a planting left
to be alone in a field of aloneness. Parenthood is ‘after the fact’,
we are absentee gardeners.
It is best this way though, better to realize that we are grown
to be alone, and not a part of any truth except our own.
Verily they who declare they have no father or mother on this earth
live in grace, and garden not in this world but the next.
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