The Quaint Garden

THE QUAINT GARDEN

Welcome to this twilit glade.
How does the garden grow?
With creeping vines and leafy twines and
Moss that falls like snow.
What did you hope to find in here?
Regrettably, you can’t leave,
But carve yourself a place to sit;
Don’t fret or fear or grieve.
Be chary of the lichen, there,
It seems to like your boots,
And give yourself a bit of room;
Evade the moving roots.
This fungus—it’s congenial;
It gravitates toward heat.
And worry not over the rot
That strives to swathe your feet.
What’s that? You say you feel a touch
Along your downy neck?
It’s not a thing, just in your mind;
Ignore those reddish specks.
These spine-tipped buds, don’t let them touch
An inch of naked skin;
You can’t be sure they are benign,
So please, you should listen.
 That soil patch, it looks quite ill;
Don't gaze at it too long.
Some tendril might be crawling out
To poke you with its prong.
A sucking sound, you say, my friend?
It must have been the breeze.
No, no, not so—such things don’t glow,
And tongues don’t grow in trees.
Your sense of being watched is false;
No cause for paranoia.
An odd notion, that you’ve been bit--
Teeth are not found in flora.
Your agitation causes pain.
Wherefore assume there’s danger?
No one can be blamed if this
Quaint garden distrusts strangers.

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