Garden [St. Jane Archives]


I grew out of fresh starts and
believing in silver-tongued promises of
second chances;
thought stagnation was a curse
and I had knocked on the witch’s door
and paid for it
and with the curse came pain –

a buried-deep kind of awful
underground in grief
and heavy silence.

souls are perennial, though
so it was a growing kind of awful –
tears as raindrops –
so I might, yet, come forth into bloom;

so I may have paid, too, for my blessings