the courtyard

there is a homeless camp

at the bottom of the mountain

where i pick chanterelles

remember how last summer

how we painted with the rain

this morning

there's a dead body in the zen garden

as sunrise lifts it's wings

over the dry face of the earth

disgraced

it's humming

there's a low shriek of

blood-flowers

striking the surface of the sanctuary

the heady aroma of

burnt jasmine

birds of paradise donning

their hackneyed bayonets

seed-banks churning

ink wounds

pools of tepid light

do we remember how next spring

the courtyard will again be lush

in it's own litany of ruins