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.

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