In a tender space that frightens
and inhibits her eyes she opens--
near the garden gate,

She can see the wind
of a golden ribbon
blowing on ahead of her,

And the slow turning
of a ball as it folds away,
is eternally calling,

Her time here begins,
to shape as the same
time it became yesterday,

An Eden of green starting
to show signs of wear,
but ever vast and preoccupying,

As she hears familiar
light tidbits
of gossip
all around,

Gossip might push
the growth down
like Winter,

Hurt might cut
the garden short
or make a storm
she cannot
live through,

Her wonder,
at what she has found,
has led to several poundings
of heart and soul now,
Face into the dirt
with stone knuckles,
"What is she crazy?"
Landing on her head
like a four year old's
hands will crucify a piano,

Most cannot know
how a desert is pulling
itself all the way
up her spine,
In one metal bucket,
after another,
a bucket
assembly line,

It crashes
the sand
onto platforms
of bone and hip,
all the way down,

So vines of ideas
and pigmentation
for ideas that will
blossom later,
keep on expanding
from North and South,
to East and West of her,

She is walking
so slowly
wrapped in green
like a pixie,

None can see,
her standing
in a healing line
warmed by the
Fires of Bealtaine,

And she knows
about this
feeling somehow,
The groping scratching
thrill to survive there,
as insects know
to crawl and crawl
with knowing,

She knows what the worm knows,
and where it goes,
and how to form worm visions
of electric hope in the growing mind,
begging the spine to care,
pleading that it will all grind
to an end somehow,
leaving her somewhere.

-------------- Author's Notes --------------

This one comes pretty close to describing how it feels to have a complex partial seizure. I keep on planting flowers.