When she asked me
what I meant
I thought to fill my hands
with all the beautiful plants;
having things all in rows
and cropped; and up.
Instead, I sat down
in the deep green
like a cat or fallen
fruit. Laid out
in the flowerbed,
one leg bent
and my shirt all out.
A bird came down.
I filled my hands with soil
and closed my fists.
I thought of flying angels,
as the delicate flies rose up.
At that time, I lived my life
in big stitches
and jagged cuts;
on straight roads.
Not looking what was in
the folds or the rising dust
I sought only the touch
needed for things
to be solid. But
in the small garden
I felt the air
that lights things,
and the tissue
of colours.
When she asked me
what I mean.
