Voices on the Wind
Voices in the Garden
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.