The Not-So-Secret Garden (Poetry)

I tend it daily — walk its twisting paths
fuss over sprawling bushes — clip and trim
to no effect — they grow the way they will
despite my stern attempts at discipline.

And weeds — they come at night when I’m asleep —
propagate a green and rolling flood
that suffocates old flowers — straggles wild
to fill defenceless borders — root and bud.

They’re poisonous with thorns — my memories
of strangers who once trespassed on my lawn
I cannot name them now — their faces blur
their shadows stay although they’ve long moved on.

My walls are high and I have locked the gate
against invasion — but the seeds of fear
float across — strange mosses haunt the trees —
everyone and no one visits here.