(Gardens always have something to say)

Not for me one of those neatly articulated 
plant factories, everything straight-lined 
and growing to perfection
its plants arranged by platoon,
	Company at Attention!
color-coded, all their papers in order,
commanding every syllable, 
heel-clicked to perfection

Nobody would look at anything I planted
whether in the greater, or lesser, outdoors,
or smooshed together in a tiny nook
of a working house inconveniently deprived of 
	a conservatory,
or, that unimaginable structure: a 'greenhouse' -- 
picture that! a house built wholly of green, 
	slimy roots with hairs
tackling the guests, binding them to their armchairs

but, instead, shoved into a corner, under a window,
with the pink glo-light glistening at all hours, 
offering a little taste of Lost Vegas -- 
	the lure of nature on the wild side
run amok, bereft of magazine spreads
     and catalogues 
and perfectly greenhouse-grown arrangements
of movable parts

but, au contraire, crammed into the midst of a messy
	day-to-day existence
of growth and decay...

...And think "formal" garden.

I'm feeling informal today 
How about you?
                        

When I fumble for the right word,
turning the business into a football of the mind,
pouncing, swatting, slipping the spheroid 
	this way and that,
hoping that Holenby or Cottonwool will magically 
     relieve me of the burden, 
and hurry one's posterior down the field
     for the late rhymer,
planting the extra two points

Yes, concealment is the virtue of the imagination,
     uncomplaining, conceding the odd ache and pain,
to the wages of time
Having had time to sufficiency, seeking only more
mis-membering this or that
making self and other laugh, or smile at least,
with a slanted observation 
     designedly off the true 

When my eyes see one thing,
and my memory, that trembling catalogue of
	ancient associations
produces something other 
a near fit, maybe,
but not the thing itself 
A stumble-nym, a near-sightly miss,
a nibble from the mouse of recognition,
a snapshot of intellection 
	intended for some other album...

The moment passes, fades, 
     the colors run, then drain
The thing in itself 
becomes some yester-thing
the passing flux remembers itself forward, 
     as the rabbi (I think it was) says,
not the hare of fashionable attention 
-- falling like the rain,
moments both of them will temper and distemper 
in whole health and stutter-dumb...
I cleave my weakness to my breast
and hold fast to my world
                        

I'm walking down that mighty Covid Highway
No one's gonna walk it for me 
Gnats are buzzing 'round this mighty skyway 
I've gotta walk it for myself 

I'm gonna walk this lonesome highway
We're gonna walk it by ourselves 
Ain't no cars on this mighty byway 
Since Mr. V-Man closed it down 

Now you gotta walk this lonesome highway 
It's the road leads to your car 
Where you parked it by the curbside  
If you're lucky, it's not far 

Ain't no cars, not on this highway
Big steel gate across both lanes 
Got a dream of walking my way
Ol' Mister Virus takes no names 

I'm gonna walk that Covid Highway
I have no need of fear of cars 
Cause I like to do things my way
And Mr. Covid leaves no scars

*Apologies to Woody Guthrie's "Lonesome Highway."