on gardens

there are words
inadequate
actions
incomprehensible
feelings
misunderstood
some things are best
left alone
to wither
on their own accord
where blossoms
are impossible
to cultivate

trouble

I never look
for it
it just always
seems to find
me
like you
tossing back
that long hair
standing on
one foot
and eating
that peach
it’s trouble
once more
at my door