
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
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Jessica Lee McMillan ©
Published in Blank Spaces Magazine, December 2021
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