A garden is harder than a marriage
you can’t throw sex or wine at it
to pacify the wilderness that threatens.
A garden remembers holds to
rhythms
you laboured to weed out. As you
tame it,
clear the Eastern Cape clay it springs
up
slaps you.
A climbing rose, a pale matriarch,
grows vicious despite my secateurs.
A pear tree, fat with lichen,
defiantly bears wizened fruit.
