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.