Roses and violets make a tapestry at ground level, softer than anything I’ve ever touched.
Vipers swim throughout, unhindered by the infectious reputation of a religion that’s irrelevant to them.
Knowing nothing of their star rating and the hatred enclosed in the cultural heart, they silk through, sewing their presence through the garden’s fancy.
under the leaves
press-ups on god’s lawn
dig my finger in the soil and it’s perfect, bugs move out of my way
Milton wrote a thing about a thing.
And he was blind.
He thought god made him so, so that he could better see the miraculous vision of a paradise lost.
An angel dictated to him, he said.
He thought he was sort of like Theresa from Fable, or other milky-eyed, mystical figures from art.