I garden with words, turn syllables like soil,

Plant soft phrases where silence would spoil,

Each line is a furrow, each rhyme is a seed,

Sprouting out meanings from a personal and quite desperate need.

 

Commas curve like vines in the sun,

Pauses bloom when my point is quite done,

I water each stanza with my breath and much thought,

Pull out some cliches that should never be taught .

 

In verbs I find roots of emotion,

In nouns, the stillness of a devotion,

Metaphors branch with wild delight,

Twisting through darkness and reaching the light.

 

Some poems grow wild, untamed and unsure,

Others are pruned, rise sharp so tall and so pure,

A garden of grief, of hope, or passionate flame,

Each bloom unique, no two quite the same.

 

So when you read, tread soft and please be aware,

These words I have grown with much love and such tender care,

Their petals may cut, and their roots may cling,

But listen, beware, some of my work like nettles can sting.