It’s
not the woods, then;
it’s
a lawn, planted like
a
carpet, a boundary fenced,
designed
to mark and define,
not
to keep it. It’s a garden,
bordered
in flowers, dead leaves,
earthworms,
bees clinging
to
the Monarda. No wildness
like
then, no place to pretend,
It
is what I know now.
It
is what I fit, now.
Photograph: Shaw’s Arboretum, Gray
Summit, Missouri.
