ode to your garden

  Rain is falling on your garden

  —or rather has fell.

  I admire your plot, the pine branches

  knitting above the quickened dirt.

  Your garden is full of shades:

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  blurs of subtle star light,

  moist farmer’s boots

  and the worm’s house.

  Puncturing rich soil

  are black pots,

  hoisting up scarecrow leaves,

  spiny thistles clinging to each other

  with knobby knuckles.

  You started your garden,

  With the best of shortcomings

  without shovel or reason.

  Your garden is a plant cemetery,

  circular black tombstones

  dry and filled

  with dirt paler than the ground.