Robert Verdon, #416, Divine Garden

Two lines

of cypress pines

Nip the razorback

Like tweezers.

Far below

I search the

same old path

for a new turning.

While the goldfish jump

In the garden pond

And are never seen.

The blood-red roses

Conceal only aphids.

The radio

plays Beatles

Bringing back

memories

Of the class

party of ‘63.

Like a volcano

That once erupted

And is now

frequented

by children.

I search the

same old path

on hands and knees

Sowing peppers.

I glance up:

The correa bushes

by my birdbath

(without a hiss

of wind) have parted

And there lies

a wood where

three ways meet.