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My garden
My garden is long and narrow:
A path just wide enough for a wheelbarrow
And a strip of flowerbed either side.
Forget-me-nots run wild there, and a blue tide
Of speedwell seeps and laps
Over borders and through gaps,
And periwinkle tangles in the honeysuckle bower
So each seems to grow the other’s kind of flower.
There are raspberries and a tiny apple tree
That bears the sweetest apples that could be,
And hyacinths, celandines, hydrangeas.
But most remarkable to strangers
Is the ancient peach tree with its laden boughs.
Bees love my garden; butterflies come to drowse
On the warm path heedless of my tread
But wary of the looming shadow of my head.
Standing by the house the eye is drawn
(Like a bee to nectar down the guides) to a worn
Paint-peeling door.
One can’t be sure
From there (the shed surrounding it is hidden)
That it does not open on some forbidden
Paradise of lilies and macaws
Where there are no more doors
And sunshine filters into springs
Or sparkles on the tiny wings
Of hummingbirds... I keep a little back
And let my fancy fill the lack.
So may my garden ever more
End with a closed door.
by Damaris West
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