How to Survive Hell

There are still thistles in the quarry.
Wildflowers that thrive among the rocks
and the storms that run through the walls of stone.

There is still a sky.
Blue some days. Dark on others. Always changing
and full of ever changing beauty.

In the back yard, the Rose of Sharon
is beginning to bloom. Two flowers
announce what will soon blossom into a cascade.

I have a cup of coffee.
It is warm against the early chill. Thick and strong.
Even its aroma is powerful. Good. Needed.

The bees are out, busy in the wildflowers
that your neighbors would likely cut,
but you tend to leave in place. Unruly,

Not unlike you some days, not unlike
the world you live in. Unruly
and often broken. Angry. Dismaying,

which is why you stop. And pay attention
to the eternal that surrounds you,
the things that come back every year

like the best of lovers.

About this poem

About gardens. About the seasons of love. About surviving the uncertain times we live in. Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture was taken in the quarry across from my house in West Pawlet.

Tom