the phrase that comes to mind is:
“Strong before the mast.”
In the various swarms and swarms of things.
Some Painful, where the familiarity of a thousand daughters has shifted
like so many allegiances that dissolve with time
Some familiar, as if piloting my soul is some comfortable extrasensory power closer than all the atoms that comprise me
& Some downright confusing: watching uncountable spiderlings fiddle through the gills of an enormous mushroom that I put back exactly as I found it. Utterly unclear of its meaning.
And it is there in the sensitivity, to this endless bower I am constructing, as a monument to some sort of obsession,
it rises like a moon that I feel in my bones, and aches like the blood of exertion
Where the truth seems to be so simple and clear:
“It’s all just gardening.”
From the humans on the side of the freeway, to the surface of mars, it’s all gardening.
proliferate the solution. Manage the land and water and people in the best conceivable way.
Layering fixations as if I know that they will coalesce.
As if polishing ideas into a particular kind of psychosis
That I warp into fruition, every single day.
It is not the destination, but the process.
As we render the marrow of ourselves
To our mind’s eye
As the endeavor of becoming some greater,
whole—
