I love my nature
The Pretty in Pink in Hopscotch
The tango vibe in a sister’s thrift store earrings
The veins in a “I don’t know weed” through the cracked concrete
I also love the Ghost of gardens past
fighting their own “rumble in a backyard jungle”
daring you with their thorny backside to come chopping
“My ghost is free I can almost here them say”
I was here before your great great greats.
You could be too if you’ll love your nature, it’s
wildness, it’s vastness, it’s remembrance of barren feet sinking,
into a rapturous soil of humanities bliss.
You can remember if remembering is not just a memory.