Garden
Think of the moon, stewed in sunlight
like a poached pear, fruit bats taking little bites
off its surface. Think about scientists
and their wormholes, the dark soil of the night
all riddled with stars. What would you plant there,
in the rich damp non-earth?
I’d choose strawberries.
Imagine, the dawn sprouting bright white
blossoms, growing pink and red
with little gold seeds.
We’d have to be there right on time
or the birds would get to them first,
that great big bluejay swooping in
to catch the berries in its beak,
its wingspan taking up the entire sky.
Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-three year old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is fond of glitter. Her work can be found in several literary journals, including Soliloquies Anthology and The Gateway Review.
Beaver Magazine 