to the man in my gardenless backyard
By Alex Waitkus
The clouds are moving away from me.
It’s windy.
Now and then I wish I could go with them but
I’m already digging my fingernails into the soil to search for earthworms and
orange peels to better fertilize the patch you are about to grow
from. I throw wet, writhing treasure like shooting stars
down in your soil and kneel by you
with filthy hands. Filthy sinlessly,
hardly erring. I hope
to see you bloom this year. Immovable mass, keep me close.
Immovable mass, keep swallowing rainwater
and those orange peels
that are earthworms, that are orange peels.
You keep me pressed towards the ground with your gentle pull
and the clouds dissipate. They wait for me
to come with them another year,
a year in which
they will pour down rain like sobs. A year spent lamenting over me, having to labor
in slowly untangling my hands from your roots before my body would ever stop
tending to your quietly growing
head, leaves,
sprouting flowers, and
spinal stem.
Alex Waitkus is an artist and writer from the east coast, finding a sense of home in both the chill of Atlantic waters and the shades of green only found in Appalachia. They have been writing since 2018 and creating art since they could finger paint. They have several award-winning works published across the web and in print.
Artwork Source: “Orange Music,” Susan Barry-Schulz
Artist Statement: 8” x 10” collage on canvas (old marked sheet music, old tree identification field guide page, vintage men’s pants tailoring instructions, old and new magazine and catalogue scraps)
Susan Barry-Schulz (she/hers) is a disabled physical therapist and poet/visual artist who grew up just outside of Buffalo, NY. Her work has been nominated for both Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes and has appeared in Rust & Moth, SoFloPoJo, SWWIM, Heron Tree, Bending Genres, Leon Literary Review, Quartet, West Trestle Review, The Westchester Review and in many other print and online journals and anthologies.
The Turning Leaf Journal 