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Holding And Being Held By The Breath: A Solitude
A Response Poem to My Private Garden

There are no large private gardens.
They must fit within the rib cage,
a wheelbarrow of humus,
no more.
Against the sternum’s midnight
we root the daylilies of our longing,
opening to every sunrise,
prayers caught in their throats.

No room for the blue child
to extend her arms.
She is poised like a diver,
landlocked, heavy heeled,
hands at her sides.
The dirt beneath her
swims into cloud.
She cannot leave,
hostage to the planter’s trowel.

Behind her, the gash of sunset.
At her feet, the mindless cherub
waxes into praise. – Maj Ragain