The Garden

The garden to Ghost House is barred, enclosed.
The yard is flowering, flowing in peony springs,
Waters-of-the-valley.

The grass sings concerts of constant companionship
With roses and kisses.
The lovely lies of summer rear their heads,
Promising eternity in beds of blossoms,
Butterflies vamping the honeysuckle, flourishing,
Jealous bees visiting from the orchard,
Bringing the profit of pollination
To the little apple trees.

Ghost Garden is planted with projects,
Rejecting nothing that will grow green,
A rendition of truth.

Joy has taken root, taken an interest here,
Sending out shoots and runners,
Blossoms and pregnant celebrations of life and self.

Ghost Garden is wife to Ghost House,
Espoused on the wedding day.
She is clever in getting her way
By being beauty to the beholder,
And what she wants is worship,
Which is, in her view,
Taking you into her confidence,
The penultimate of satisfactions.

You are seduced.
She woos, wins and compasses to her aim.

That purpose which is her glory,
She can safely claim,
Can tell the story of
Faithfulness, perfumes, mysticism,
Romance of the real and the compassionate.

She is glib in these matters,
Does not falter,
Does not alter
One line of fire.

Those not admitted are fated
Never to understand the poetry of her person,
Cannot even estimate its wealth.

Ghost House revels in its garden,
Glorifies its seasons,
Condones the triumph of emotion
Over sober reason.

(March 12, 1988)