The garden keeps itself from the winter:
In the garden it is perpetually
Spring and the coriander remains green
Because it has nowhere to go and the pink buds
So pubescent and raw
Are like scars by the scalpel of time
Sown into the earth's scalp
That rupture quiet leaves leaving
A harmony. Wounds heal: the earth knits
Her memories into the needle-
Work of the past and is still
As she always was --
While underneath the insects cut
Into miniscule thousands buzz.
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