Talking Back to the Mad World

I will not tend. Or water, pull, or yank, I will not till, uproot, fill up or spray. The rain comes. Or not. Plants: sun-fed, moon-hopped, dirt-stuck. Watch as flocks of wild phlox appear, disappear. My lazy, garbagey magic makes this nothing happen. I love the tattered camisole of nothing. The world runs its underbrush course fed by the nothing I give it. Wars are fought. Blood turns. Dirt is a wide unruly room.