I like this garden. I like its low stone wall,
the hydrangeas in earthen pots, the grass
growing between the flagstones. And the table
where I write, and the man coming out of his house
to cut back the lilacs or mulch the roses. And the woman
in the breezy dress, standing like a flower in the middle
of the garden and how both of them, after a while,
sit down at this table. The sun moving across the sky,t
he bees drowsy and drunk. The sun slipping
behind the rooftops, the man and the woman quietly
talking, or not even talking, not even minding the leaves falling
and falling around them, the garden filling up with snow.