A motionless colony.
Growing with gnomes.
And not with crops
And not with crops.
Of stalwart collectibles,
An old engine block,
A disconnected exit sign,
And counterfeit Easter island heads.
Among so many other intricacies.
Rescued from other piles of refuse,
Or from faraway islands, in march.
Or from fairways,
Blown away by trade-winds…
Brought here to carry on their tradition.
Any tradition, for that matter.
Bleached by the sun,
(A tradition of radiation)
Chipped by falling acorns.
Chipped by falling stars.
The noble gnomes,
Pushing ceramic wheelbarrows,
To ceramic marketplaces
Where insect vendors sell dust by the dozen
…By the pound
Mobile or otherwise
Moving almost nowhere,
Collect more fallen acorns.
Collect more fallen stars.
And storing them right next to nowhere.
That sits directly next to the old shed.
Where cats and rust are one in the same.
Where firewood is stacked.
Where the coral snakes sleep.
Other gnomes, who have taken to the tops of stumps,
Some holding marbles,
While others beckon with pitchforks,
Attempting to cut down the butterflies as they swarm nearby flowers,
Thinking of building bridges,
Other autocratic possibilities.
Will, at the very least end up fractured, like the
Old, washed up dishes, that closely resembles a graveyard
But not in standard.
Purchased by some old aristocrat,
(Who had a penchant for practicality as well as glass)
From a store whose neon signs long ago flickered out,
Just to match the rest of the dusky plaza,
Which once smelled of pizza.
To match the supermarket whose shelves look now more like monuments then they ever did,
Even in their heyday, when the air still smelled of wax
But all the people still moved,
The people even danced.
In busy parking lots,
Around unlocked cars.
Where a pet store once stood,
From where the beasts sprang fourth!
These dishes, who
Originally were more clear then swimming pools
Originally more clear then surrounding clairvoyants.
Who have quietly grown organically right along side the green moss,
(Even though it is much colder on that north side)
This population rings bells so faint,
Vexed by sounds they don’t yet understand.
A careful listener may mistake them for tiny wind-chimes,
(If there were any careful listeners left)
They have all gone to brunch.
They have all fallen below sea-level.
As night falls the gnomes do not close their eyes,
& Easter island heads
The amino acids
Dominoes as well as
Not because they are aware that Rome has fallen,
Not because some volcanoes remain dormant.
But because stationary eyes do not close.
They do not want to impress any emperors.
That task is for the bird- baths.
Splash in slow motion.
Washing away vinegar
As well as cold-medicine,
From their perplexed feathers.
Turning then into doves,
Burning like the phoenix.
They spin their heads along with the noble owls, and
Watch passing tires spin faster.
Disregarding the diamonds
Other loose change they so easily pulverize.
Hoping that the resident jack in the box,
Like the garden itself.
(The only difference being a tinge of fertility.)
This is land that is not only filled,
This is land that is full.
Full with fresh water
Full with light that moves between branches and
Full with gregarious air that breaths
Cacti who don’t need deserts to grow.
Guests who don’t need dessert to know when dinner is over.
This is a garden of gnomes,
Caught in stasis,
Instead of spiderwebs.