I never have liked gardening as much
as mother, brother, friends and cousins do.
My thumbs are beige; I seem to lack the touch
and patience. I prefer to read and view
the scene outside my windows. I don’t own
an inside plant. Bouquets can make me groan –
cut flowers are like cat-mauled birds to me:
a gift of fugitive morbidity.

But I adore the green outside my place.
I marvel at the dignity of trees,
appreciate the bees and birds and shade.
I live where roses thrive and sages grace
the yards. This spring I shrink from dread disease,
but stretch to use my pruning shears and spade.