punk monk
mohawk erect, i sit
on the split log bench
by the grape arbor
seeking solace on bent
elbows, fingers tracing
wood grain, searching
for answers in the whirls
of tree ages
marks of storms and creepy
crawly invaders among the sun
god's benevolence baked in
and through it all stood tall,
arms raised, despite, until laid
low to create this space
green buds and leaf adorn the vine
dry limbs, trimmed one at a
time by hand, last week
lay for the burning, but again
new life has come, trumpeted by
the song of wing
soon enough new fruit will
feed, for those unwilling
to be content only to touch,
without strength to bring
to lip and ingest, this is a
sluggard's gambit.
in habit, breathing, i toe
the regimented red brick row
back to the house no longer
alone among the sown garden
of my thoughts.
Brian Miller
Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #13 over on Magpie Tales 65
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