I thought I was a little
too old, too serious
for a crush. Thought that was
a fancy reserved for the young.
Seems I was wrong.
I have a crush you see, a serious
derangement of my status quo.
Driving desire to be with her in my heart.
I have a crush
on my garden.
My beautiful garden,
my love in her green and brown gown,
Lying there in the back yard,
her arms open wide to the sun, her yearning
to grow sounds like a sigh in the wind.
Her locks tumble and lie, all shades
of glorious green across her tan curves.
Succulent pleasures wait to be harvested from
her body, always open to my gentle touch
sun-warmed and ready, always giving.
She doesn't mind when I tumble her
with the rake, or run the tiller
puffing on a cigar, the pale smoke
pluming around my head,
her steam-powered cyborg.
Standing around an open grave, wrapped in
raven garb, in somber tones they always say
"Dust you are, and to dust you will return."
That fate doesn't seem so bad to me anymore;
An eternity, spent lying with my love.
*Thanks to Nancy Dancehall ("My Life in Fragments") for not slaying me outright (yet) for stealing her beautiful girl-as-earth metaphor.