Night in the garden

This dark heart of mine, crouching in wait, overflows in the rain with its scent of the earth. Waiting for answers before questions can be given over-- the lock to make the key turn in writhing anticipation.

I used to fear reaching my hands into the unknown black spaces beneath rocks, leaves, and wood. Naked fingers are drawn to the tangled puff of spiderweb and sudden cold slime of snails. Time spent closer, face pressed to the ground, has cured my hands of their exploratory apprehension. Every rock is turned and all secrets are baked away in the white smoke of the sun. I know all corners of the garden and each leaf-leaned nook.

Now though, these night visitors-- the raccoons-- fill me with dread each morning I wake to find undersides turned under again.