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.

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