The Demon Gardener of Meadow Lark The demon child has dug up the back yard again Exposing the roots of the dogwoods Tossing clods of dirt and grass An over-eager dog searching for bones. The dirt is red and vivid, soaked through, Blood from battles past or just clay Left behind from some great mythological river That wrapped the world and left buried paths. She is sowing through the scar she has made Indian blankets, irises, poppies and thrift Knowing they won't show their true colors A year we'll wait to see the wounds fully healed. The earth looks disturbed and disgruntled Not happy at all at being forced to disrobe To strip off the blanket of fescue and clover The ground violets are blooming in protest. That's not attractive, I tell her And she glares and huffs and digs her shovel Deeper, revealing black loam below. Treasure to a gardener. You have no vision, she warns and kneels Shaking dirt from the grass roots, sifting it With fingers stained red and grey, like a potter's hands, Forming and shaping and making something from dirt and sand. The grass roots are gently laid in the bare spots and watered Like tulips or roses, such care for something so plebian, And it will grow there and spread, and need to be mowed. Offerings to appease my offended back yard. Already she can see the colors, bursting out Can see the intricate picture she paints With seeds as her palette and a spade as her brush. It's in her mind, and all I see is dirt and bare earth. But I trust this vision she has of later This prophecy of color and the promise she weaves, With stubby fingers and tangled hair, and sweat. She is a demon after all, not of this world. No carefully landscaped garden this, The landscapers are all crazy anyway Mounding yellow and purple pansies together, Nature knows better than that. My demon likes things a little wild, a little chaotic There's no order to her madness at all But come the summer and her madness will Infect the yard, and make it beautiful. Oranges and yellows and blues and whites Pinks and purples, some hugging the ground Others waving delicate fronds and petals like tiny flags The birds and butterflies will come and rejoice. I cannot see what she sees, my mind is too rigid Wanting squares and angles and symmetry and order, Where there are no surprises - you can't plan for that. Demons, it's true, have their uses.

all poems © 2004 v.a.watts