A garden bed undresses for fall’s arrival.
We examine one another before agreeing to the challenge.
Her bed, coated in spiny chestnut shells.
woven roots lay dormant below layers of skin.
Part lucious, part skeletal.
I cut, haul, and carry the brittle bones of summer’s body
To the pile of death under the blooming apple tree,
becoming life while I sleep.
I wouldn’t know the fullness of love
if I didn’t have to entwine with death in the aftermath.
This requires a steady hand
and breathing room.
It’s late August in Maine now.
My body feels strong,
carved by the original artist’s hands.
Her medium, the elements.
Her paintbrush, an instinct pulsing in my belly,
singing in my ears.
Dig, tug, pull, repeat.
Sorting out old wounds held inside her
Through my body.
These hands work.
Hands that know healing.
Hands that trace every pure line in her rawest, wildest form
Intimidating the hell out of me.
The artist takes me in the direction of her vision