You ask me for the answer.
If I had it I would give it to you,
I would spill it out from the hessian bag where I would keep it,
The smoothness of it would be catching on the rough edges,
Making it tumble out awkward and uneven.
I would spell it out in splendid gold gilt letters,
I would hang it on my office box,
With red highlights and ornamental curls,
But I have searched the answer,
In skies and skudding rain,
In the spaces in between the rubbing together leaves.
Till I forgot my name.
I asked the canary.
But he was silent in the mine dug so that I could ask the molten core.
And my garden isn’t so ordered,
In sandpit boxes, border edges,
That it would be apparent where to find it,
Supposing that you could.
The chocolate mint is hidden under tomatoes,
The potatoes are growing in the junk heap.
What I call the path is the places without plants,
There is no map.
So supposing that I had the answer,
Held neatly in my hand, yes,
I would pass it on to you,
But I’m having too much fun, scratching under rocks,
And digging trenches,
To tell you that the answer isn’t hiding in these small things,
It’s much bigger.