Oh sweet garden.
Dearest friend,
My conscience,
Confidant,
Companion-perennial,
My hands desire,
Let me be your Guardian
Angel among the flowers.
Not for me
H.C. Anderson’s grisly tale
of sunbeams and sick children,
with the angel filching the flowers
to bloom more brightly in
heaven than on earth.
God forbid!
My garden is my heaven,
and I’ll make myself wings
if I must
to fool such
fair-weather flowers