Foraging metaphors,

my winter garden is spare,

pared-down, pruned

within an inch of life

like ghost-blossom hydrangeas

chopped to woody stalk,

bereft of dramatic florals;

such is the grace of death

I wish for deciduous words

like adolescent teeth

to fall like fallow verse

from a spent mouth

that blights awe

with each abuse

I wish I could masticate

my garden of words,

numb the evergreen diction

that colours my tongue

under lazy mesh of spider mites

Foraging poetry,

I scratch through lexical webs

to articulate the earthiest dirt,

aerating dead soil in hope

it will birth my mouth

with wild new seeds

---

Jessica Lee McMillan ©

Published in Blank Spaces Magazine, December 2021