A frozen garden expects a new flower.
Expects, the way frozen furniture expects
experiences that subvert earlier ones
and set up a “subversive” life:
full of hope, little repetition.
Objects know that material is followed by form
but now they are frozen,
flexibility reduced to minimum –
and the shapes of winter sitting in garden chairs
are suppositions, sounds without movement.
Cracking fur, a crunching sleeve, icy lace
and a shoe that slips under the snow like a startled mole.
The frozen garden expects a new flower,
snow, flower, snow
until no one knows which one is which.
A bloom is followed by deep freeze,
deep freeze by redness
and the heart will never fester,
the seed will never be crushed at birth,
and the image of god is immortal.
Everything piles up, but on whose shoulders?
When you arrived
there was a moose living under the garden, or at least existing.
His horns fruit trees.
A bright flame under the surface.
A heavy cloud on the forehead.
An innocent blood maple oozing out of a spot between his eyes.