Author Information
Garden Grid
Through my daring window I see circular completion;
patterns made by rounded threshes, fighting for one's eye.
In their platted mounds they grow as guises made confounding,
pulled from grounds so premature and potted down and dense.
There upon the windowsill they'll flutter for attention,
hungry for a watered hand to tend their limping leaves.
Fingers of their gardeners turn brown with season's passing
and soon they are repelled by thorn and poisoned spore in tandem.
Still when thirst beleaguers them and skies are clear and clean,
they'll bloom a pretty-pedaled swatch and beg you to come hither.
