and this poem is finally a leaf

My poems have been a gas
powered lawn mower
with a duct taped wheel,
an electric weed eater flinging

pebbles into spiral galaxies
and blistered palms around brooms
on sidewalks littered by trees
pruned by hail.

My poems have been wordless
rich stench of gasoline and ripped
green, the ping of stones
against chain link, the weeds

whose roots I’m too tired
to pull, too careful
to poison, so the roots
stay, the green flies.

Buddhist sages say thought
is the root of speech, speech
the stem of actions, actions
the leaves. And I wonder

if my garden means me.