One must move beyond the garden
Into the darker world: where apples
Are not forming green hopes
On the tree,
Where cherries shrivel back into
The seed shapes from which they
Might have become fruit.
Here, roses are disappointments, not
Full and blowsy forms, but leaves
Stippled with mildew, rust spots.
This is the garden of discontent:
Rootwork nematodes are busy
At the heart of things, devouring
The succulent root stems,
A slow microscopic plague
Intending only to survive itself
Killing its host.
Still, we garden. Beyond hope,
That abstract thread winding up and
Around each thin seedling we plant
The water flows up and out into roots
That might bear next year, or the year
After. This thin volition of spirit,
This nonsense, is what propels us
Into the garden and beyond it.