First week of winter—
 
the path to the rose garden
 
is dusted with snow.

 
 
 

Last days of autumn—
 
the fence around my garden
 
keeps shedding its paint.

 
 
 

In the garden shed
 
a leaf rake’s broken handle
 
waits to be repaired.

 
 
 

My backyard garden—
 
I forget to latch the gate,
 
and roses escape.

 
 
 

Some nameless creature
 
under cover of darkness
 
plunders my garden.

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
two old men walk hand in hand
 
through the rose garden.

 
 
 

Lengthening shadows—
 
an artist plants her easel
 
on the garden path.