a ringing, the fork chants,
as addictive as prayer, zinging
on stones. Sometimes, raised
in shock from subterranean depths,
a worm gorged on earth basks
briefly in the cool watery sun rays
before sinking below once more.
Over at the far end, where the nettles
grow, death is waiting, hands slick
to polish the bones until they shine
like a song. And this garden
envelopes me, encloses me
in a hammock of hands; love
makes the heart an open hand.
When there are such wonders,
how can hope not prevail?
* * *
Garden © Alison Jones 2005