Voices on the Wind Voices in the Garden
Her World by Nadine Lockhart Mustard flowers burst wild yellow against brick sidewall; Stiletto gold against gray flat--old and peeling. You hold her in a darkening dream dance, yet never lose sight Of the taut-line hitch. The garden grows fast, tall, but spindly. In a month, they bloom once, maybe twice--itís all over; You deadhead land poppies with her scissors, towering over Their bent manhood, looking for a tomboy. She could say nothing . . . not even about the scissors. You criticize weeds she calls herbs; She resists, complains, but eventually roots them out, Then gathers up green debris Stuck on the patio like wet coins. By seasonís end, ice plant neon Nudges out pale and lesser blossoms Competing for vagrant rain; In the desert, thereís only the first world.