of forms we wander
wondering which
of our charges--ranging
from camellia japonica
to araucaria--
wants water,
if Japanese beetles
attack the neurasthenic roses
in our care
or pillage the plum,
if the hydrangeas
on the hillside
wilt in the June heat,
or, conversely, in winter
if the ornamental quinces
brought outside on a mild day
must be wrapped for the night
when February turns frigid.
Never-the-less, despite
the sometimes seemingly
continual sense of emergency,
the rigid
Linnaean nomenclature
not to mention a clientele
rich in idiosyncrasy,
some immune
to the simplest instruction,
it is beauty
the more touching
for being transient,
perishable as a peony
which seems to shed
its petals as we watch,
which commands our attention,
even our wear.
Spading the compost
into the clay
until the mixture
resembles cake batter,
is required if the jasmine
or gardenia will make a summer
scent redolent of Eden
or Paradise-- first garden
and the last.
Is it then to be inferred
that a stench
is required to make perfume?
So I suspect.
Certainly sweat
is required, and skill,
also the patient
calculation of effects
though nature is fickle,
the weather unpredictable,
and no reference work
seems to account
for the anomaly
presented by an irate customer
bearing a blackened branch.
Zigguruts of Babylon
disappear, the topiaried
knot garden is converted
into a bocce court
after the revolution.
The symmetry of heaven
(where all that is lost
will be found)
is felt none-the-less
in an idle moment
on a hot afternoon
when the flower
at which we stare
looks back.
(1999)
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