In the Garden

420 days a year,
Eight days a week,
I climb high trees
& live in canopies.
I water, divined,
My vegetable mind,
& reach my peak
Where clouds career.

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Monolith

Though wondrous are the monuments of stone
That yet enjoy the splendor of a prime
Lasting for ages—spanning lengths of time
Wherein were seeded, birthed, and fully grown
Great nations, cultures long since buried, gone—
And stand them still (sides slanted as a rhyme)
In total rapture when the arid clime
Around them swirls a storm of dust hard-blown,
When these have worn to so much desert sand
The greatest of Man’s achievements will be extinct,
Not because these will henceforth cease to stand,
But since the kosmos will have forgotten the tinct
And brittle leaves with hieroglyphics inked,—
The works that Beethoven scribbled out by hand.

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The Flowering

The sonnet which the sonneteer will spoil
    With loving faith and tender nurturing
Rewards the poet's care and gentle toil
    With beauties which to no other verse will cling,
Becoming it the delicatest flower
    That ever rose upon a thorny stem,—
That ever felt descend from heaven a shower,—
    That ever garnered envy from a gem.
Attaining heights which ne'er surpass petiteness,
    Pretty and poised it flowers in full heat,
Displaying then a fine design of neatness,
    The air both soft and strong, potent and sweet.
Crowning it lovely twice will be its bloom
And the long-lasting scent of its perfume.

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