Another day without an uprising

everything that's wrong
looms before us, everything
we want seems just
out of reach, a dream
of a garden and you
lower yourself into life
ripe, moist, joyful but
beyond the gate, poison
lurks sneering, strutting
around the bend and
taking up far too much space.
i'm holding this object
wondering about you and
the uprising, the fertile ground
the seeds, the waiting furrow and
the water flowing, the tears
irrigating this heart felt plot
this ground where vibrancy
overwhelms the darkness just
outside the boundary of
that swamp, on that hill
attended by so many empty
hands and the tight closed fists
of your worst nightmares.
under all the ugly asphalt
beneath the dull concrete sleeps
more gardens than we can count.
all it takes to start these seeds
is the water we carry with us.