When I had grappled for hours with ground elder,
trefoil, umbel-flowered, its stem touched crimson,
its roots multiplied beyond measure;
when tendrils of wisteria I had seen
tentative at morning in a single day
leapt a void of air, conniving, stubborn;
when I had seen the bruised carnal profligacy
of shattered wine-and-cream sofa-colored petals
arrayed around the stem of the peony;
when I had also known the mortal smells
of sweat and sweetness cradled by the fig
daylong in its green shade and blunt dactyls,
then I turned to where you listened to Christ Lag
in Todesbanden, the shadows at your eyes,
across your lap a bright crocheted rug,
and knew by what the garden would outlast us.
By karl kirchwey