Elegiac

I write this poem to buy myself time,

like when I breathe or mourn. The days

pass; not sure how many are left 

before I must go outside, 

bury words in my garden

and move on. My poems 

walk, like loved or neglected children

past the stone walls every day, 

on their way to church. 

I often wonder about them, 

leaning on my spade, 

trying to divine the strengths

hidden in thick sheets of denim, lost to me 

because when digging in the garden

I'm blind with soil, birthing new life.

Neglect will lead to death, starvation,

yet...doubt--will these plants grow?

Will reddened trees smile,

my pitchfork's mouth filled with bits of hay 

clinging to its steely smile?

Or will they be like the woman, 

despite braindeath,

whose organs still wrote commas 

in the run-on sentence 

we had to stop reading to correct.