Mother’s garden, secret and circumscribed,
grooms the smell of well-trodden moss to
cloak the moonscaped sliver of silver beds.
Scents of life teem with rotted death and swell.
Immortal in what is left, impervious
to the fleeting beat of passing feet
stays against an earth already swollen
with the burden of time and pause.
Pregnant mosquitos lick the cool breath
from pools stagnated at the heart of a
jungle gone mad upon itself. Slaked and still
impassioned, they rise from their birthing
to claim their will, a thirst for blood, the
urge as ancient as the snake that coils
itself around the river moon and beasted
sun. In stealth, they swarm as one, bent
to the singular purpose, drink or die, but
live to perish in the criss-cross of days.
The lizard scampers across the heated
rock of indifference and releases the slip-glide
of slithered tunge, snatching the sole vector,
a morsel of succulent dread, life in destruction.
He awaits the next, sunning leathered apparel
on rocky crag at the foot of watery splash.
Framed by greened jungle, leaves switch
in a breeze that alerts him to the coming cool
of night. He alights into the nothing and every-
thing disappears into the solitary garden.
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