The Garden

Some of us are here

as messages

because in the small womb

lies all the lightning.

Why We Are Here Dorothy Livesay

Snow must have been falling when the earth began,

covering our blue lips,

sealing belief

behind eyes frozen with tears

of lost faith.

How could we guess a miracle would appear,

cold give way to golden light?

Or was it just

that crocus whispered in our ear:

some of us are here.

The garden falls open like a book,

tracing favourite passages

snowdrops holding lantern heads

to light our way

to forest's edge

Trees converse in languages

we used to know

and beneath the soil

worms write hieroglyphs of the ages

as messages.

It is all here:

memory which holds us captive

because we cannot forget

which pushes to the surface,

gulping in air,

revisiting corners of the small room

where it all began,

circling to where it begins again.

There will always be thunder

in the tomb

because in the small womb

the thorns of memories

prick at the skin

of dead dreams,

remind us of the flight of days,

the inevitable returning cold.

The end of summer has a mordant ring,

and in the approaching eye

of the autumn storm,

inescapable and frightening,

lies all the lightning.