A rhizome-tangled clump dumped tidily enough
beside nestled rocks and canopy debris is left a year, far from other thoughts.
Whatever growth is, dreaming or travelling, started under humus, where colours
are anonymous and keep to themselves. Too wet or too dry isn’t so serious,
daylight sorts something out, and night is quiet time at ground level. Far from
other thoughts, [dietes] grandiflora have burst to attract the eye,
unexpectedly. They got this far. We are incidental, playing our game of
gardening. Some massive force of nature, bee or wind or sun, will do the trick,
exactly what’s called for.
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