The Imperfect Gardener

Someone once said, long ago or last week,

that it's futile on a finite and populous planet

to seek a truth, or a finely polished apple,

in the still-life-on-canvas we daily behold,

and by such uncouth behaviour

we are mostly confounded, and fail to grapple.

So we're prisoners here, in uncounted millions,

unable to leap high or fast enough to...

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The Fire and the Rose

If death greets us singly, one-by-one, alone

And asks why we should not be taken back,

The brave will say (or else the wiser grown)

That little terror lies along that track;

Since each knows well he lives in separate rooms

Though sometimes letting others stay awhile,

But still the doorway closes as a tomb

Excludes affliction, slights the sinner's ...

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