Tangled Garden

after J.E.H. MacDonald

This garden is a frenzy

of whispers, half-wild, creatures

like voices moving between the weeds

A murmur of nasturtiums

If sunflowers crumbling

calms you, their brittle veins

needling your skin –

what of that? Dust is, finally, silent.

You begin to grow this way, the living

fed by dead things, husk and fragrance

borne on the same wind.

And that window? If there was

a girl, she’s gone now.