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Poetry — She buried the key to her words in a garden
she found a keyhole
in a cluster of ballons
(that was where her story was hidden)
there, she said
the words can float up to the moon for all I care
(but she did care)
so she hid the key deep in a garden
under the honeysuckle bushes
and she watered them every day
imagining the key growing roots
becoming spongy and soft
deep beneath the soil
smelling of mulch and blooms
the key to her words
going back to the earth
her story as sacred as sunlight
(and as protected as her peace)
