Empty of flowers,
Overgrown with weeds,
the untended garden is calling to me.
It's mid-summer, though;
Too late to tend it?
The garden of my body is calling to me.
Am almost sixty;
The stalks sag, the flowers fade.
Weeds are already embedded
Why hope to uproot them?
You've got to die of something.
The garden of my mind is calling to me.
Overgrown with projects, the soil needs sifting.
Yet new seeds appear, taunting, promising...
Am too busy with old crops to work new ones.
But, my mind, why encourage new growth?
The garden of my soul is calling to me.
Night is falling.
Plant only those seeds that will endure.