The garden wasn’t cleared last fall
Ready for winter. It rained. It poured nonstop.
I couldn’t cut the grass. It was so wet that all
The weeds went wild. With every drop
It seemed a dandelion grew. Each squall
Rotted another rosebud from the top
Of overgrown stems. I couldn’t haul
Myself up from my couch to cull the crop,
Indeed I lacked the very strength to crawl.
Strange how the mind fixes on minor matters
When major issues leave our lives in tatters.
In the valley of the shadow of death
Nothing can touch me. I am so
Full of morphine, if I breathed my final breath
I wouldn’t care and wouldn’t know.
In the valley of the shadow of life
I wake and wonder what I’ve missed.
What is this wound, this witness of the knife
That sliced my flesh? What unexpected twist
Of fate has brought me here? What strife?
Well, I am here, I’m still alive and kicking –
Not really kicking, no, but hey, my heart’s still ticking!
And what’s the problem worrying me the most?
Who will tidy up the garden if I give up the ghost?