Be this world, but a mad mad garden.
I am tilling, and planting with woe.
I eat occasionally, of its fruits
and when full, tenderly, I go.

Pardon-
my nature is of the child, and so
I pull this leaf, pluck these petals,
and stop to smell of the rose.

There is a chill in the air,
a cloud blocking light,
and an odor tickling thy nose.

Be it this time, or past, future
or fourth dimension; How can
I know?

There is no limit to my pondering,
no effort in this wandering,
enjoyable is the quest to know.