Robin York  © 2007 All Rights Reserved

What I Learn About the Botanist the Morning After

He likes decay, the reek of rot,
because he believes nothing
is really fertile until itís dying.
He keeps a compost heap
but steers clear of gardens
with their manicured precision,
preferring to feed weeds
he can put between his teeth,
pinch off fiddleheads and dandelions
and taste sticky green.
He walks in forest and studies
its tangled underbelly
where seeds find soil by a chance wind
or the lucky landing of bird shit.
Each shoot rises knowing nothing but light
and how to reach for it. This is real love,
he says and pulls aside his bedroom curtain,
revealing the plant in his windowsill,
its desire bending the stems until
the leaves touch the glass.

Traci Brimhall
Copyright © 2007

 

Traci Brimhall was born in Little Falls, MN, but has moved seven times and now lives in New York City. She attends Sarah Lawrence College, where she is earning an MFA in Poetry. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Slipstream, the Hiss Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, and 2River View.


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