There may be greater beauty, richer land,
Than this to which I daily turn my hand,
A soil that sprouts no grasses nor no stones,
A garden kinder to these aging bones.
I’m sure somewhere the oriole sweetly feeds
(Instead of squirrels and chipmunks hoarding seeds),
Where squalling catbirds sing a sweeter song
And wrens provide their arias all day long.
This knotweed doesn’t grow in everybody’s
Tomato beds; some soils aren’t as cloddy.
There are organic gardens with no slugs,
Nor hornworms, cabbage moths–destructive bugs!
There must be soil more generous when one seeds it,
But if there is, I think I’ll never need it.