July 24, 2001

• Today's poem:
  
  

  Earth Bound
  
  My bones are shells, my flesh hangs soft,
  they treat me like delicate china;
  well,
  my head does look like an egg in a cup.
  
  I still tend my garden.
  Butterflies weave among spires of delphinium,
  lay eggs in the fireweed.
  Hummingbirds sip from the honeysuckle
  climbing all around the porch
  where I eat wild strawberries
  that the birds don't get.
  
  When I was young the neighbors thought me queer,
  digging and rooting, nurturing wildflowers;
  no manly pursuits.
  Now they pity me because I'm old
  and haven't anything better than this to do;
  earthbound, housebound, rootbound.
  
  I think
  someday I will rise, as I've always risen,
  to the floating scent of leaf and petal,
  the beating of wings,
  and I will keep on rising
  
  while they
  may never now just how earthbound they are.
  

  
  
  
  Wes says it is majorly sappy. Ah, well.
  

  • 5:49 pm
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