The Goodbye Garden

This garden will not leave when you remove it;
Its weeds will grow on past the bulldozers.
Tree stumps will never quite be cut down to size,
And a trillion butterflies will roam the scene,
Longing for the flora of their past.

I will watch you gather the farmers of the land
And tell them the soil is not theirs anymore to till.
I will hear you declare how your buildings matter more
Than a run-down piece of land where some folks make things grow.

I will close my eyes and wish that you, too, would see
What lifts my heart when I pass by this garden;
What makes me think – for a moment –
That I could grow something myself,
Before walking on to large buildings where there are no green things
Besides broken plastic Easter eggs and saccharine jelly beans.

I will shut these eyes tight past tears and see my garden,
Its never-finished beauty always changing, always growing green.
The farmers will still marvel at their harvest; the children will again
Be brought to see the flowers; the old couple will nonetheless linger
At the spot where they once planted a tree for their dead son long ago.

And I will see all of these things as your whackers and saws and trucks attempt
To remove eternity from the senses; the simple awe of hands working daily;
You will erect an insipid building that only an earthquake could enliven.
And I will laugh through these hot wet eyes at what you can never do –
And that is remove this garden from me.