Backwards

One day, a group of somber men
picked a likely spot and dug
me up, a wrinkled sprout.
I ached, and thought, and was alone.

But as days went by, more and more
friends got dug up, little brittle
roses, growing stronger by the day,
everyday quickening, more lithe.

I was still lonely
so I dug up a dog, a hound dog
a little gray around the muzzle,
sketchy edges to his spots,
but I thought he had potential.

And we grew stronger,
but still gray, still sad, still dark.
I began to write,
little by little, until it was
a flood of raven ink,
which shined-

But I hurt so bad- that I went out
to dig deep, deep,
and struck gold, found the love
of my life imprinted in the clay.

She was sickly, at first
they couldn't take off the tubes,
and I couldn't write.
But from the moment I unearthed her
I never left her side;
my presence must have calmed her;
she grew slow and gold and healthy.

The dog grew sleek and fast
And we grew young and loud
With friends like branches
With rambunctious gaping fruit.

One day, I realized that I
would never love another,
and we realized
we had nothing to prove.
We grew young and strong,
and I wrote like fire.

It was ivory smooth, silky, good,
and one day we returned our tiny dog
to its mother.
I went out and dug my own mother up,
to tell her about it
( Jesus, she could gab ).

My love and I grew apart
into our separate joys,
illuminating, growing lighter,
and I didn't care to write.

I couldn't have told you what a fig leaf was-
but we, in our wisdom, knew about the reservoir,
and the secret places in the forest
(we were dewy, young,
so close to our allotted time)-

And one day, at the very end of it all,
I went back to my mother,
and she absorbed me
radiating my vitality.

With it she grew younger and golder,
until at last one day her mother absorbed her-
moved back to Ireland,
where green was in her blood, and gold,
and she grew young-

One day someone read this poem backwards,
found it an abomination,
and turned it into a tree.