The Garden

on the ridges of my mind (*)

on the ridges of my mind,

i found that meadows really do become waves

and they ripple as the breeze passes through

without even a breath of apology

and though there are no fish in these waves

there are crickets and hoppers and bugs and beetles

that balance precariously upon the eaves of grass

that tickle your knees as you wade through

and if your feet are bare then you'll feel the dirt

shift and sigh as your toes tiptoe past;

they crackle  and roll as you tiptoe past

and kneel down and whisper your compassion

before you pluck the wildflower from its roots

be sure that you croon a lullaby

so that it remembers no pain;

only an unpleasant dream.