My entry to the Poetic Traditions Poetry contest Round 10.
My cards are speaking Cherokee,
Not a phrase I understand,
The same is true of my backyard,
In my dreams a distant land.
There's a place to cry for mother,
There's a place to cry for dad,
One corner holds the closest thing,
To romance I ever had.
A garden made for everything,
My affection might've been,
The terrain lies dark and barren,
No sown seed has yet to win.
However, I plant carefully,
Any flower strong and wild,
Nothing but weeds have ever grown,
For the man that's his own child.
As if the scourge of happiness,
A rabbit sits still as stone,
It's gaze transfixed as if to say,
I'll forever be alone.
An adage that I've always heard,
A garden's glory is dirt,
Head and heart held up in the sun,
Would resolve a world of hurt.
So I'll endure and persevere,
To deep plow and plant the soil,
Until the day a seed makes way,
And rewards my earnest toil.