The Gardener

by Kendra Whitfield

This week my world is tiny

Restricted to the path between

the bed and the coffeemaker,

the recliner and the fireplace

I don’t need food,

only light

When depression hits, I become a plant.

No.

Image credit: Thomas Verbruggen on Unsplash

One of those stones that mysteriously

glide across deserts, leaving

smooth tracks in the sand behind them.

What I mean to say is:

my brain is a gritty mess.

It needs tending:

a soft white cloth to

swab its tender folds,

a mister full of amino acids and hope

to lubricate the cracks,

gentle hands to massage

light into the dark areas,

to make them shine

I read once that orchid leaves

gleam when they're polished with banana peels.

Maybe I need more

potassium.

What I really need is to tend my own garden

the one I replaces with rocks to prevent weeds

Now I want flowers but

I don't know how to grow them

anymore.

***

Kendra Whitfield

Kendra Whitfield lives and writes at the southern edge of the northern boreal forest. Her works have been anthologized by Community Building Art Works and Beyond the Veil Press. When not writing, she can be found swimming laps at the local pool or basking in sunbeams on her back deck.