At the rhododendrons, their clay pots swollen, ripe soil wet and pungentt, you put me in charge of the seeds, letting me go where the small packets line up like a colorful band of plump cellophaned players: tomatoes carrots summer squash sealed loosely in slick packages rattle like a golden gourd. I am starting my own garden to feed the hole in my head I believe is the only opening to my toes. It started with the avocado seed on my window sill and comes to this, my love is caught in plastic glass, transparent, suspended by wooden toothpicks, driven past the skin to the meat, the sweet beginnings of roots dangling in rotten water. I can see you at the ferns marvelling at their bright perfection you sift between them like an ant finally crawling toward me at the potted pines: like small men their arms yellow and stiff. I think LA smog does something to the trees; I think if we meet it will be at the planted flowers: so strong a perfume that that section makes the eyes water. While I touch the animated pictures of squash and carrots you will motion for me, enveloped between iris and bird of paradise as if to say "In LA we have enough to eat. Let's care for flowers despite the air." But you are planted somewhere between the ferns and me carefully planning my garden and I am dreaming of fruit.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com