Gardening Day

for Jennifer

There was a French TV series
I watched in my pre-sexteen years
based loosely on Robinson Crusoe,
the protagonist sometimes abandoned
himself by laying face down
on a verdant, flowery field
with twin little boob-like hills
and a view to the ocean. 

Unlike him, or the series writer,
I've no dreams of fucking Mother Earth
unless we're talking of climate change,
earthly motherfucker each denier.

Changing the subject, today
she watered something in me
when she said,"It's a gardening day."
Or maybe it was, "Lure me in."

Arousal is confusing, we feel it while
its full source might not be traceable.

Yet it was a gardening day,
and the sun warmed my petals,
and my roots were unquenchable,
and there's no place for denial
as she's implanted in me.