Green Ribs, Green Songs

 

All the marrow of a man or woman, green & sub-rosa,

As if we ourselves were our gardens

Before today—I think I could will it so…

 

I was my garden, was the yew tree;

Was oleander,  or the uncommon weed

Which now we can’t identify

But think it’s a flower

& leave it alone.

 

S.K.

Comments

[Leslie B.]

Aha, perhaps this poem may be the answer to my question, "...consider the downside of our miraculous cyberworld of instant communication. There was a time when a 'retreat' truly was a way to disconnect. But here you are in paradise, with the whole wide world breathing down your neck. Is this a good thing?" Perhaps it wasn't. I have a devil of a time understanding modern poetry. Yews and oleanders are both quite toxic. Is this significant?