The garden regards its ends, no means
To do harm, thy harm will be done.
Of earth, as if it were Heaven;
A pen through this pen for a son.
Constrained to witness the inchoate
Forbid (weeding out disorder),
I regard too hard. My eyes, so bound
To borders and paths, water.
A fenced vision, mine so long
I forget it’s theft. Thus tamed
As Nature is, and I insensate,
When the sun returns it's the same.
The wood in sight wears Autumn shades,
shrinks, or wanes, as my roots dig deep.
It sees not me and I not it as the lawn
begs attention, ritualising sleep.
