Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Sonnet #22

Digging up the weeds below the water spout I found

A single relic of a former gardener's memories
A piece of trash, to me, because the plant was drowned
A metal sign of chocolate mint that long ago dies
Everything will die, and when they do, the signs
We keep will be the Anthropocene bones
Metal, plastic, stone, and etched with names
Of planted, died, dissolved into the stones
A memory of chocolate mint, lettering stained
With memories of water - rust - twisted up, interred
The bent and ruined sign was barely legible
Poor gardeners call their signage cemetery markers
I prefer to think of them as Ozymandian heads
Once there was a garden here, a gardener, flower beds

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