Fallow

Fallow


Something about a dead garden
brings to life a growing season
past in memory, or somewhere else.
Maybe the garden isn't really dead,
but only apparently so,
with dry vines snarled
around bamboo stakes,
brittle cornstalks broken
on frosted ground, a pinwheel
spinning pink in the dusk;
all whispering the somber browns of has-been.

And I – scarecrow gaunt,
tightly bundled with wool
sweater and flannel shirt –
scratch my leafy head,
and wonder what about
the dead garden attracts me.

Maybe it's the same fascination
with condemned buildings,
rusted rails, crumbling mill towns –
those decrepit remembrances of
attempts to stop nature's progress;
the quiet marks of failure inevitable.


Or maybe it's like I said;
the garden isn't quite dead,
but asleep, with all her
common sense and poise,
resting up before
the growing season
wakes her once again.