From being a cliche, lawn, flowers, boring shrubs
My years of sickness grew the garden wild
Now a meld of birdsong, wind, and wood
I yearn to enter, yes, I am beguiled.
Like an island in the suburb’s sprawl
The penetrating focus of owl’s eye
Into this green dream, its world is hauled
For survival, wildness has turned spy.
Even if, at last, survives one tree
One leaf, one branch, one root, one seeded pod
There a nest of singing birds shall be
There shall be a presence of the good.
Until our world’s destroyed by burning lies,
Poets shall sing and chant until all dies.