Borage
Sprung the days before equinoxequal in their power and a
comfort during these days
of pain in foot from breakage
and stenosis of my spine
where the river of life
is dammed and jagged
and condensed into a thread.
Into the wild of mallow
the perked up forest green
an emerald collective echo
bouncing with rounded crowns
with white mustard warming
tickled ivory shoots they pander
and through the thicket dandelion
and wild garlic and then borage
purple flowers.
I love the taste
the smell and the power of
seeped deep amethyst swirls
jade streaked abundant
with desert terrain camouflage.
I have earned the equanimity
that stems from living on edges
pondering ledges and teetering
on extremes, where nothing
much will faze me except the
pain in self and others.
Pain, the great impetus,
the mover
the pusher, never master
the con, the fool and the masquerader.
I squander hours in taking in rest
feet propped up, spine aligned
heart pounding, when I'm not.
Here a relaxant, there anise
then deep breathing, then
a prayer, I somehow wade
through the swamp of collected
scars and bumps and inflamed
tissues and breaks and boils
and bleeding and bites and
shattered nerves into a garden
to clear, separate, gather and rake
in between falling down in exhaustion.
Through the weeds, pulled
their spines, roots
my spine, my roots
the earth, my mind, my body
my psyche, browns and greens
with those that fly,
wriggle, bop, jiggle
the eating away, caustic
peeling away
the dying, the clearing
tearing bursting out
of its sphere no fear.
Tall grass where thorns
burned and scraped the air
now deep steeped reprieve.
From muddy chaos
thunder bolts hurled
forming some kind of order
in the corner there is
sunshine moving into
some kind of peace.
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