|Jan/Feb 2007 Poetry|
Ghosts and Mushroom Mulch
Black bees worry the purple flowers
on the rosemary.
Orange blossom paves the ground
with scattered snow.
I kneel amongst mushroom mulch
pull the last weed / deep in the reek
of rot and decay.
Yet there is pleasure in the organic smell
gratification that is almost erotic
far removed from fragranced linen
the smell of baking pies.
I have an urge to take off my clothes
roll in the humus sniff of summer
held back by calendar months
where winter ghosts are stored.
There is a ghost right here in this garden
it wears shoes / desecrates the violet patch
picks my best roses when Iím not looking.
At night it sits in an armchair
waits for me to fetch its supper.