The garden is a continent of plants. Consider the industry of weeds. Darkness and light. The way stems raise the skyline. The stars they throw up the vines on the wall. The forest at the edge where little wolves pace at sunset. Some gardeners must feel like gods. They know the landscape that well; they can predict the weather and where the dianthus will flourish. They mix concoctions like chemists and administer them like physicians. They know the names and the relatives of all their charges. Not me. I am dressed all in red and carry a basket of bones for the wolf. I get lost in chaos, overwhelmed by plenty. And so and so I walk down the gravel path, puzzled and hopeful. And this could be the end of the story.
Elizabeth Knight has an MFA from the University of Massachusetts and is a visual artist represented by PDX Contemporary Art, in Portland. She teaches writing and literature at Portland Community College. She is the recipient of the Massachusetts Artists Fellowship and has published work in Prairie Schooner, Conduit, The Clackamas Literary Review, Telescope, and Poetry East among others.
