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Miracle Grow

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In the barren garden
lie abandoned bags
of Miracle Grow
scattered around brown skeletons
that stand in frozen protest.

Inside dragging through the pastels
of the dusty room she slides
her glass half empty of mother’s ruin
onto a table its tears falling down
to the surface.
They gather in a pool
on the unfinished stain
of the wood.
Sinking down
into a rocking chair,
she reaches out to touch
the vacant crib beside her.

Looking past it,
outside the hazy window
she rubs her temple
as she regards a tiny green leaf
straining for the sun.

Comments (4)

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Absolutely brilliant! You etch a very vivid picture in my mind. She seems so sad, yet objected to hope regardless. Thanks, T

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I read this a little differently, I see her as the resurrection
mother, turning the vacant back into life, but Wickedly beautiful is right, the picture is vivid in the mind with her frail but humble being, taking a short break from the task and...

I read this a little differently, I see her as the resurrection
mother, turning the vacant back into life, but Wickedly beautiful is right, the picture is vivid in the mind with her frail but humble being, taking a short break from the task and having a drink with patience, enduring this life with the planting of life. I love this woman and I love how you gave "HER" life.

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I agree with both wicked and vango in that the mood you set is quite vivid. I see a downward spiral of depression here, beginning with barren, then skeleton, then further on down "sinking down into a rocking chair." Words like ruin, tears, and...

I agree with both wicked and vango in that the mood you set is quite vivid. I see a downward spiral of depression here, beginning with barren, then skeleton, then further on down "sinking down into a rocking chair." Words like ruin, tears, and unfinished. I see a lost child and despair, and the small hint of hope at the end is as hope often is, barely there, just clinging by a finger nail. Then again I may be totally wrong here, but it is the sense I take from the piece.

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Alberto read it as was intended, but that's just one of the many beauties of poetry--the freedom of interpretation. Once it leaves the author it is what the diverse reader makes of it. Thanks for the compliments and thanks reading, guys.

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