A woman tends a garden
filled with a great variety of roses.
Climbing or opening, each of their
names is a poem.
The walkway is trellised
with braided boughs.
In another garden, a fig tree
towers next to a persimmon.
They have secret names, too:
crow-feathered poems.
Mystery's the answer
to what I can't explain.
Moss thickens like ache
among islands of grass.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
