Even in this rank, neglected garden,
its disappointed hopes now overrun,
where plans and plots have rioted their borders
defecting to the rule of rain and sun
(the dominance of verdure over culture –
a lesson in intentions overgrown)
the tangled weeds and twisted reaching branches
achieve an architecture of their own:
New England aster arches like a fountain,
its regal purple blossoms widely flung,
the golden grape leaves curl and furl baroquely
along their swags extravagantly hung,
and everywhere the starry seed heads burgeon,
about to reassert their native tongue.
