Mary Makofske

I leave the formal garden of schedules where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs of thought, and day after day, a boxwood topiary hunt chases a green fox never caught. No voice calls me to order as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel to earth and, moving east to west, second the motion only of the sun. I plant frail seedlings in the unplowed field, trusting the wildness hidden in their hearts. Spring light sprawls across false indigo and hyssop, daisies, flax. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold or promise rain. In time, outside of time, the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers.