Garden, garden, why don't you grow?
These are things I'll never know.
Your lawn is rough and full of weeds,
Despite me tending all your needs.
Your shrubs continually expand and
balloon,
Despite my best efforts to trim and to
prune.
Perennials die with monotonous ease,
Leaving labels behind to bait and to
tease.
Bulbs and seeds go in but then die,
My drawer-full of packets proves it's no
lie.
The pond is brown and choked with weed,
And the hole in the liner more stress
than I need.
The tree at the back is probably dead,
But lends some height to the rest of
the bed.
But as I gaze from the kitchen inside
I can't help feeling a sense of great
pride.
And although my garden isn't that fine,
It's all that I've got, and mine, all
mine.
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