After the war I made myself over
in flowers. Hardly sweet or sentimental.
Anyone who has a garden knows
how rough they can be, wars
that drag on each day, no truce called.
No stranger to chaos, I feel at home in a
garden. The partially open bud cave
calls me to explore. I build
a home like a caterpillar does,
between twig and leaf. Maybe
I’ll become a butterfly—but I won’t
fly away. Why leave a home that can
withstand anything from a raindrop
to a grouchy chipmunk? We used to sing
when we marched. I still do.
A breeze made of dreams blows through each note.