The Garden

The garden is always a surprise
though nothing in the garden is surprising 
except you count 
how many spiders parachuted in last night
on threads so fine
yet strong enough
to hold a whole world, throat and collar, hard
against a wind in savage mood.

The spiders' tents are everywhere.
The rose bed is preparing for a festival, it seems -
of beer or music, probably.

But
nothing of the garden will surpise as much
as nature and the gardener
when slightly out of sync:
two voices raised                soprano and contralto
now one against the other
and now in perfect unison.

Two truths in conflict -
but with everything in common.

The spiders do not understand the music
though they listen-in attentive to the themes,
afraid to breathe
unless the music gives them leave.

And no one rustles toffee wrappers here, these days.

I often wonder what the bo(a)rders 
make of trippers
who drop in for a season and are gone.

But it's the way plants chat across the void of lawn
that takes the unsuspecting by surprise.
In the chemistries of shape,
in geometries of hue,
are subtleties of body language 
far beyond our ken:
the dahlias dogmatic in their notions,
the phlox with quite a different point of view.

I think the roses may be slightly bombed out of their minds.