I cannot grow an apple tree,
aromatic herbs, fresh flowers.
I dig and plant and water and weed;
everything dies.
I drink the wine of another’s vineyard,
climb the walls to scrump the orchard,
cadge the scent of another’s roses
passing by.
In the spring, unprompted, a bud.
I try not to tread it down.
The God has reclaimed the garden
as her own.