The swinging gate into this shiny new garden
is chicken-wired with hexagonal holes
in the fencing. Today’s summery heat
invites green beans forth from dirt tombs.
There will be a need for trellising
soon enough, as bean climbing
and bee buzzing celebrate my effort.
Cool umbrella shades the beds
furthest from the long sun arrows,
where I rest in a plastic chair
and drop more tiny, stoney-looking lives
into ruled furrows of soil.
Some words come into me through another
gate, to visit, when I enter the garden
with the intention of doing
anything worthwhile. If I enter with
no intent the words turn back
into something resembling
dreams melted into flowering puddles.