In this quiet room I wander the garden

Pressing my fingers gentle against leaves
their slick surface grazing against the pads
I gather the flowers to my face to breathe
until I come upon a stone
lifted from the soil it yields a tumble
of chittering and scrabbling beetles
tumbling across each other for purchase
I name them as my doubts
clinging to a clod of dirt the first falls
down into the rock's impression in the earth
remaining on its back without fighting
to right itself again
the second hides between blades of grass
hoping to be saved and at once forgotten
paralyzed by its own overbearing thoughts
cleaning itself compulsively
it takes a moment to locate the third
plodding steadily along the divot's edges
sampling the ground every so often
it looks up at me
I replace the stone with a private sigh
I've shared my thoughts as something of
plants grown in your own garden when
they're my buds, after all