Helen Lehndorf

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Boots and all, you foolish thing

A seed doesn’t come from a packet. A seed is a packet. I believe in the glory of soil. I pray to the spirit of seeds splitting and green rising. I aspire to the composted afterlife. A worm is a portent of goodness, of forthcoming riches. These red poppies are the children of the plants I saved from the bulldozer at the art deco house on Broadway. I am sharing around town what I saved. Small black dots of what it is to ignore fences.


I fight with street signs: when the traffic light says ‘walk’, I say ‘why?’ At the give-way, I give nothing. We are all on our way. I am tired from the struggle. I am a hot, cross Mum. Re: solutions. My new year’s resolution is surrender. Elevate the heart rate. Bake the family a coy slime pie. A sly pea key. A slow cold plea.

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