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Would that I but had a garden
Wherein which I could tend the soil,
And stand watch like patient warden
Over the seedlings as they grow.

What would I plant, you ask of me?
Goldenrod to sow good fortune,
The aster for the honeybee,
Sage to cure my soul’s exhaustion;

Hyacinths for my regretting;
Wisteria for something new.
Ancient sins there’s no forgetting,
But there’s still good I’ve yet to do.

Forget-me-nots for those who’ve gone,
Like little stars of rain-washed blue;
And morning glories, full of sun,
Dyed deeply pink and purple hues.

Or what’s more pretty than a rose?
Plant two to bound the berry hedge,
And at the center, plum tree grows,
While daffodils will line the edge.

Garden paths will weave and run there,
Trimmed with clover, thyme, and bluebells.
Ferns I’ll plant to stir up wonder
When I wander wooded dells.

This garden lives within my heart
Until I find the space to grow,
And train my fingers in the art
Of taking things more soft and slow.

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