(Blank verse in trochaic pentameter)
A garden flourishes in my mind’s time
Of last season and the next season
A memory of work, an exertion
Overtly hostile to gardening.
Seed, digging, dunging, mulching, and
Weeding . . . over, over, and over
Spiders grasshoppers, mantis, and larva,
When memory returns that summer crowd.
Oh I’ve never met a grasshopper
I didn’t dislike, but remembering
Often wisdom is nearer to me
When I stoop it is then that I soar.
Little problems are easy to solve;
But it’s much too late for big problems
Lovely chrysanthemums are then in
Bloom over a carpet of dry leaves.
In the contrast of pathos and beauty
All things disappear, and beauty is
The garden of ideas and is
At no time one thing or one process.