The Garden
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I am a deracinated legume
Raw, exposed, resigned, relaxed
Displaced by hands of which I'm dispossessed
I look down upon neat cultivated rows
The baked earth weak from summer's use
And littered stubble remnants of the harvest
It is a wasteland
Such forces in my garden world
Impair, impress and fascinate
Languid as if the dream will end
I catch a glimpse beyond the fence
Where the meadow is olive-green, thick and lush
Variety and fullness abound, abuzz with life
Punctuated with the scent of jasmine blossoms
It is in that world my secret meadow thrives
And where my roots are deep and my branches firm