“When a thing is wick…” 
                                          –       Dickon, The Secret Garden  

Once upon a time:  There was
                       a time, there was
a place, a bit of earth and dreams

        climbed trellis breath
        with ivy fingers sent to sky—

I bury words and messages
(myself), like squirrels hide nuts in Fall,
forced-remission-missives—
malignant sparrows                                
                                     til they’re fed.
                                               For now,
 
I bury angry knuckles
in the soil, attempt to spread
these river-rocks 

together, in a tryst, 
                                   a twist
of something beautiful,

but hidden, sleeping, dead and dying—
corners of my yard 

                                    I will (re)build.  I will
shape this zen to garden—       not retreat;
                 
                                                         this is not
retreat. 

               A healer cannot heal
                           from an empty grave.
               A lock cannot be
                           broken, without a key.