gardens

prisoners, slaves, we compose

our meager gardens sown and cultured on cubicle shelves;

invisible to those who see them as a trinket-hoard, 

piled souvenirs. these gardens speak for us
our weak resistance to overwhelming Fate.

so i, from a deforested desk, proclaim 

in dull-formed words and unread poems

reprimanding Earth: you waste me here, and others everywhere!

we unhappy majority, a great dragging mass

yearn for the field, the stream, for dirt ground into our hands,

for time when we knew purpose.

and, so cruelly lacking, we now compose 

these bitter gardens: gaudy, plastic, childish things

gathered and arranged--our only resistance 

to the well-factoried career, so full of function, devoid 

of meaning: a blanche 

upon our ancient memories.

Feb 2012