There is the part that loves.
There is a part that listens
to the musical rustle underfoot.
Another part tastes
the stem of a poem, its leaves, its shell,
and finally finds the kernel.
This part happens and happens.
The taster deeply attentive
learns which shapes are fruit or root,
which are softer to consume,
which slide their wet fibers under skin, which
globes and petals imbue fragrance. Even leaves
with spines may release essences at the touch
of rain or sun, a hand that accepts
plantings that sting the hand.
There is the part in earth
for each of these, strewn with bugs’ wings,
bird messes, decaying stems. The part
that loves also loves these,
its touch blunt as a worm.
That part that wants everything
sinks into the garden process
of one word after another, taking it in,
exhaling it as sweetness,
what it craved all along.
Jayne Marek has two recent books, In and Out of Rough Water and The Tree Surgeon Dreams of Bowling. Her poems and art photos appear in publications such as Amsterdam Quarterly, The Lake, Stonecoast Review, Camas, The Cortland Review, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, River Poets, Raven Chronicles, and Spillway. She has received two Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry.