Everything I Saw

I grew pale white lilacs and wild columbine and all of it was mine.
In old recycling bins I grew watermelon vine and all of it was mine.
And everything I saw seemed to get so small like from a speeding car, old familiar barns.
I made hard wheat bread, and rhubarb berry fool, and I gave it all to you.
I crumpled all my clothes and to the floor I threw them and turned right back to you.
My rotten softwood fence my sagging hydro line all of it is mine.
The mice come in at night in the muddy streetlight shine see the hulking brown skyline all of it is mine.
And all the while I shrunk I pulled my clothes around like my body I could drown.
I dug up shattered glass and forgotten plastic trucks and coiled faded twine and all of it is mine.
My buckling plaster walls, cracks snake and wind, all of it is mine.
And everything I knew I seemed to see right through like cheap cotton skirts like the Madawaska view. All these things I knew.
Muddy white petunias, lobelia trails blue-eyed, all of it is mine.
Irises shot up high and white lilies tumbled shy, all of it is mine.
I dug up all my carrots with their wild orange hue, and I gave them all to you.
And all the words with which I didn't know what to do, oh I said them all to you.