The garden

Busying ourselves in the garden after the frost

the weeds are in better shape than the crops.

The constant struggle wears us out,

the unrelenting going against

– for Nature is restlessly reluctant

to relinquish the want

yet generous to hand out the need

as a rule in the guise of a seed –

in the kindness of our heart

we pry the ground open

to snatch sustenance from its jaws.

We harvest everything we can

to stave off what we think is hunger

and randomness and chaos

for we want to feed the sated

in the kindness of our heart.

We are an odd species:

in the kindness of our heart

burns a savage desire

to tame, to shape, to conquer,

to be unmortal.

Uncontent with good,

unsatisfied with enough,

we vie to overcome and surpass

measuring up by measuring out

in the darkness of our heart.

Yet what we cannot have

we burn to the ground,

in the kindness of our heart,

for fire erases, cleanses,

renews parched lands,

weeds the soul out.

Sometimes, it is better to just

burn everything

in the garden of our heart.