My garden. Thursday, sunset.
I gazed out upon a tree,
It grows where I spat the seed,
As I ate the fruit, and peed.
‘Tis the prettiest I ever saw,
This young papaya, this pawpaw,
Growing near my back door.
From seed to tree, a miracle,
Nature waxing lyrical,
With magic that is not digital.
It glows with a healthy sheen,
From soil and sun, not a screen,
From the spot where I’ve been peein’.
As it grows, there will be scars,
Left on its trunk, by branches past,
And heavy fruit – bats’ breakfast.
Pawpaw lives forever, until it doesn’t,
It worries not about what wasn’t,
A pawpaw’s life is all present.
My life is scarred as well,
Hurt and scratches on my shell,
Each mark a story tells.
But I am wont to anxiety,
About what life is meant to be.
Each scar hurting, a neurosis,
Then therapy and diagnosis…
But nothing is what I suppose is.
It makes me happy, this little plant
From tropical America, so distant,
So welcomed here, this immigrant.
It does not talk, makes no sound,
It’s firmly rooted to the ground,
But its leaves, they dance around.
This little tree, fed on wee,
Has shown a great truth to me:
You don’t need legs to be free.