Not one more word.
I will go back to gardening,
Which is really all I ever do anyway.

I don’t know why these moods come upon me–
Why I cannot stay.

I know. I do know.
Seasons change.
I am an annual blown by the wind
Visiting established gardens.

They don’t know who I am
And I am gone again.

“Not to love is a failure of the imagination.”
I know someone said this to me once or I read it but I can’t remember who or where.
It came into my head this morning,
Watching rainbow prisms upon the wall.

I will care for my garden.


(Where my garden meets your garden is also my garden.)