Garden. in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

There are moments in time that I think are meant just for you.

As if the entirety of them since our branches grew long and stretched far enough that our vines inexorably entangled us have not been devoted wholly to you.

Your presence.

Your absence.

And the bittersweet resonance that spans those points. It always seems to come back to something. Something terribly addicting and teeth-gritting that leaves a swelling lump in the gut in the best and the worst ways. It’s that growing sense of foreboding that I refuse to elude.

If one were to have a danger sense, you spike mine in such an intoxicating way. The allure of a warning, enter at your own risk is the classification of my want for you and the very disposition you deserve in every honest view. That I might, merely by the closer I get to you through words then action then actual distance and then space, well, the quicker the liquor of your luster fills my lungs and leaves me on unsteady legs.

Weak and wanting.

There is a fascination, you know, to knowing exactly what the worst thing for you is and then pursuing it endlessly. The arrogance of belief, as misguided as a listless satellite in orbit, scorching past the echoes of reason down the hallway of deliverance to the garden of you.

Yet what does this garden grow?

Lilacs and bromeliads?

Hibiscus for tropical vistas?

Or perhaps it is more serpentine.

A thicket of weeds like twine and a thorny brush that tears at the skin reminding you through every bleeding moment you are in fact alive.

Sometimes you stumble into paradise, until you realize it is less a destination and only a temporary manifestation. This is not merely a garden, but a landscape. Tend to it as you want, but there is no controlling it. Anymore than it controls you.

Some think of life as a gardener, tending to soil and tilling the land with love and consideration. Careful and deliberate, the methodical cultivation of something that will last and is sustaining.

And others, well, are more passing through. Throwing seeds on the ground, and pouring water in copious amounts. Buying all the best fertilizer and formula blends to incite it to bloom. There is a glaring lack of tending to the conditions of the environment in which they have chosen to root. Location far more a matter of excited happenstance than a coordination born from a reasoned while fully impassioned setting down and digging through.

I find that to be so perfectly true.

When it comes to me and to you.

And those moments in which I find myself squarely at the altar of something I wish only to share with one other. That moment in time where it seems to be the cosmic force of relation staring at me. I sit adrift in the expanse between cognition and emotion. Ultimately revolving around the star of you.

There are moments in time I think are meant just for you.

I find myself looking around.

And I take in the view.

This is the garden in which we now exist.

Though I wonder.

Is it the only garden we grew?

© Brian Milici
February 2, 2018

I wonder.

Do you?