August

This little garden bed, with its seeds of growth and change
Throughout the seasons,
Even in the deepest
Hellscapes of Phoenix summer
With the cicadas buzzing
In my ears at all hours
Like buzzsaws--
She keeps me contained.
She keeps me grounded to something beyond
Only my Small Self.
This garden with her glorious
Tiniest seedlings birthing into being
In spite of (or is it because of?) All my constant relentless feelings--
The weasels in my head that
insist:
You are broken. You are not Good.
You will always be Nothing More than This.
This garden connects me back to my ancestors. To Love in its purest form.
--To hope,
that tomorrow will grow into something I had never imagined.
She whispers in my ears at night, there is always
The unseen,
beyond the veil. The place where dreams are grown

She tells me, even despite the head weasels trying to burrow out her kindnesses with their tunneling: You are Good.
You have always been Good.
And the water that drips into the empty gardening pots I have aligned in neat rows beneath
Her tall wooden legs
Says, "hush, now. Just listen."

🌿©Omy Keyes
8|27|2019