and the Gardener
She thinks I don’t know her
but I do. That which she seeks to
preserve, I cut down. What she plants
from a pod finds a saw. And all
of nature unseeds in a round.
What she cannot know I think. How man
can improve a thing that once
breathed air. That thought
can perfect, by tool and wand
the ephemeral bloom
that wilts in the ground.
He knows what he cannot
think I am. That which he moves
the wind will disperse. What he cuts
sheds a new earth. And what
of the damp lost seeks rebirth.
What he cannot think I know. How we
only live because they do,
their riot of paint and petal
and hue, the essence of
air and grace anew.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rosemarie Koch
would be pleased to hear from you.