'A woman may sit in a garden of young blossoms showing their faces to sun for the first time, and wait for words to take root.'
Garden lessons
Poem by Jennie Osborne
There is more than one way
of calling in the seed. A woman may sit
in a garden of young blossoms showing
their faces to sun for the first time, and wait
for words to take root. Soil knows
the spell of waiting just as the robin
knows the right time to peck his future
from the pebbled path.
Outside the trellised fence, the frontline
of everyday commits its careless tragedies
and restless feet itch to soldier
in its last chance campaign.
There is more than one way
of banging the drum for the right to be alive.
A woman might sit, on an hour’s furlough,
letting a lime green nugget germinate
in her mind’s mulched maze, look up and see
pinpricks of tomorrow’s colour peppering
the raked earth.
Outside a horsebox is towed from one
worn field to another, while a radio without
a time signature waltzes on in ignorance
of the five o’clock news.
There is more than one way
of dipping into the weed-threaded pool
of stillness. Sometimes a woman might
carry it with her on the streets, a prayer
behind a drum. Sometimes it is her hand
that marches over a page, each word
exploding, a grenade of fearless roses,
over the futile fence.
