There are grass marks on my skin. The garden connects me to my senses in safety. Where do I begin? A frog lands on my cushion, a butterfly in my ear.
The frog is yellow, green and black. One gold-lined eye watches me, his other eye is shy and winks a wicked wink. Perhaps he’s a wicked prince looking to grab a kiss with his four short fingers and one long thumb. His bulging throat is a pinkish speckled stone.
All around us apples are decaying on the ground. Wasps patrol the rotten fruit and I could easily put my bare feet down and be stung. In the garden where chives and chicory thrive, oregano bolts and brambles writhe.
I’ve become the humming of bees and the breeze stirring the sun-suckled grass. An old fashioned sash splutters and rushes up as someone opens a window.
Bees and hoverflies are friends of mine and deep down in the garden no pesticides I ply, despite the snails, slugs and greenfly.
I lie supine and think of you in your woodland willow coffin. You turn your skull-face to me, and whisper, “Terra. Protect the Earth.”
In the garden the ash, fig and cherry leaves glow differently under this Harvest Moon. September always comes too quickly.
Sam Burcher
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