The gardener asks
what I intend to grow here.
I do not understand.
I have only ever cultivated what was useful.
Potatoes.
Beans.
Medicinal herbs.
He points toward a patch of wildflowers.
“They provide nothing of value,”
I reply.
No fruit.
No remedy.
No market value.
He looks at me strangely.
As though beauty
were sufficient alone.