I have risen from near ghost
to near human
I ponder. She is right
as my finicky appetite
nibbles whole pickled garlic cloves
rolled in raw spinach and fresh snow peas
A garden I struggled to plant in March.
The peas in their pods so tiny
My fantail goldfish beg to me from their bowl.
I love to share with them
as they swallow the tiny bites whole.
It’s a far place I am
In my garden, tending, mullein
Far from where I wintered
on the plains as a ghost
stumbling through invisible snowbanks
now flooded banks
I feel rich. Eating radishes more or less washed
right from the bed.
Mullein does that.
Maybe because it, too
feels nameless with a hundred comforting names
Oreille de Saint Cloud
with endless uses
heals cough, earache, stomachache
Wikipedia doesn’t include
vertigo or rue in its list
float floating a bit, still.
in my horse tank
turned back yard pool
as the fog burns off slowly this chilly summer
Dad texts me.
once lost in fog,
one’s sense never seems the same
feeling as if the sun rises in the north
or the road twists when it should curve
for me, the sun will set in the south from now on
and my dress size settles there too
As the old ache in my belly from doctors orders
is soothed by fried chicken, ice cream, and potato chips
bacon on my organic spinach salad
spiked with mullin’
I have come back from
near ghost to human
in Beggars Blanket
Welcome de Saint Cloud
Sloughing off the fog