In the gardens near my house
the plants and grass are overgrown.
The flowers died a month ago
and nothing has been done.
In the gardens there I spy
the wild and untamed branches grow
up and out from sturdy cover,
where there once was ordered rows.
In the gardens, where I go-
a silence overtook the stalk
of slow exact, the tidy stems
of leaf and bud -where once I walked.
In the gardens, seeming now
unkept and winked in disregard
the minute beauty still remains
I see the landscape,sowed and scarred.
To the gardens, I return
when seeking lines and clustered leaves
to fill my wanting mind with growth
for poems such as these.
When I prepare the yard for winter,
the time when all is stark and lost,
the dead have wilted, scruff and ragged –
and I remove the chaff and croft.
As I gird the garden, whether
further growth is wont or not,
bedded mounds of soil and leavings
cover greener, fledgling thoughts.
Seeded verse on sorted papers
things that sleep beneath decay
seedlings of the spring and morrow
beauty fit for flow’red cliche’
Here I leave the hopes of summer
warm enchantments, an enclave
hidden from the weather – bitter
though purposed to save.