The Gardener's Glass Cloud

Art by Marie Renaudin (2021 archive)

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Gardener, 

This garden was your creation.

I talked to the trumpet-shaped daffodils,

The Lily of the Valley chimed its bells. 

And I smiled with glazed over eyes,

As I rambled on with plugged ears.

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Gardener,

You tended this garden, 

But the long month wore you. 

Vulnerable,

The glass cloud came once again.

The brown rain seeping into your pores,

Addicting. 

You crave an endless supply. 

Your pain-relieving reservoir, 

Inflicted pain to the roots beneath the dirt surface, 

Drowning your own blood. 

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Gardener,

You possess the pungent breath of a false god,

Your nose, blind to the sharp scent.

But I wince as the blades tear at my nostrils. 

Your painfully slow movements,

Make every step harder to bear.

As you stumble and trample all of what lives,

The rose’s thorns left you to bleed malt liquor.

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A trail left behind. 

I should’ve known. 

The daffodils trumpeted their terror,

The Lily of the Valley’s bells shook with fear. 

Their warning went unnoticed. 

How did I not notice. 

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The Gardener,

Once again, 

The weed.

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