As if the chartreuse flower heads of my Annabelle Hydrangea are any indication of gardening prowess, as if size matters.
I did nothing, but you keep telling me that I have something extraordinary in my yard.
Like when it comes to keeping tabs on who does what first, and measuring revelations of God.
I look at my garden and find weedy seeds of envy taking root.
Tell me, who has the bigger sin?
I used to worry less and find happiness with eyes closed and mind open.
I’m certain I once created a masterpiece with a single stroke of Hansa Orange on a page.
A thousand of my brother’s hockey cards clothes-pinned to the spokes of my purple bike was a symphony, wheels turning round and round as I rode, hands off and helmet-less, down the crescent of my suburban street.
As if that were enough to stave off universal laws of time and gravity.
As if The Fall wouldn’t touch me,
Apple juice running down the curve of my young chin.