The Garden

What weeds grow here on this melancholy patch that was my garden?

Where crows swing low over seeds unknown to me,


Except by their green issue in front of the house

Beside the path leading to my door.


Standing there once, I heard thunder far off behind

The green hills shrouded in morning mist

And the strong perfume of honeysuckle charming the gray light.

The house is old now, unpainted and weary

Of my burden. "I should fly away with the crows

Of a morning," I think. And then my wings fail me

And I sink back upon the fragrant grasses and weep.