The dark garden
A great morten bay fig twists and grapples
With tentacle roots the Rocky earth it tackles
Slow these splaying feelers grip, for a hundred years or more, unto the darkened floor, thick veins feeding every leafy tip.
It’s neck like all the winters that bore Down upon it,
grey and hard and cold in the shade, kept from the light by the impenetrable cascade
Flowering above the rought iron spire
Like an outstretched hand thrust towards the sun,
For all the sky to admire.
Beneath this triumphant monolith a deep shadow is cast
Where other things do grow and wither in time past
Discretely natures fingers craft
A constant state of flux, a dance gone unseen
Eluding, slowly moving, through everything in between
It’s age humbles, at every scale it teems,
Truly the greatest show conceived.
There’s a shallow beneath the fig
Carpeted in bracken and overgrown
The dark shelter harbors a single granite stone
Where moss sticks damp, hugging the porous surface
Finding its way into cracks, making purchase
Like green bandages patching wounds
There’s a strange beauty in how nature grooms
The air hanging dense, in someway tense, almost alive
This is a forgotten corner in an immense garden
un tended, left alone, begging you to pardon
It’s affair beneath the rooted throne
So perhaps it’s able
To go on forgotten in the busy world that’s become it’s cradle
