I collect rusted things, old tractors entangled in Kudzu, rare plants and opulent orchids in my serene southern greenhouse, how at night the dimly lit orange glowing hue looks like a strange pumpkin coming to life, pristine air that is alive, outside the howling witches and their demonic flickering holographic cats on the prowl, red and yellow roses and speckled cobra lily, my favorite, the whales on a black sea, deeply bruised rain clouds and bitter almond torrents for my latest sapling, a fat happy little Juniper, a Moroccan olive tree that shall stand sentinel in my eastern orchard among the lovely wheat grass and clever Tibetan sand fox who hunts the rabbits there, the unchangeable splendor of bright green pasture grass blooming like a dry-flower-bed after a rain-burst, rain-shower of ethereal leaves and vicious debris, the rotten cellar door still spattered with the untouched remnants of some long ago forgotten tornado.
I like river moss, syrupy ponds and a heft bale of hay for the paint horses, an old wooden boat and the smell of wet cedar, I prefer a wild beauty, birch bark and the sturdy trunk and caramel encased Indian rain trees and oceans of clover, fine cigars in an ornate box, bugs frozen in amber, the simple but poetic marrow of life and death, gold tents and green fabric, abrasive burlap and a canvas for painting, the blood of Japanese maple, birds, always birds, a brown Thrasher and plump, pregnant Wren, the trembling Wren, a small black bird on a twig, he looks like a tiny Priest praying over God's fiefdom, ready for a sermon in which all who have ears should hear, how all should listen and none shall look away.