In Perpetual Spring

Gardens are also good places to sulk.
You pass beds of spiky voodoo lilies
and trip over the roots
of a sweet gum tree,
in search of medieval
plants whose leaves,
when they drop off
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they
plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal
human desire for peace
with every other species
wells up in you.
The lion and the lamb
cuddling up.
The snake and the snail,
kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle,
queen of the weeds,
revives your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt
there is a leaf to cure it.

by Amy Gerstler