Looking at the garden as a world
The overgrown becomes a rich terrain
Where myriad living forms seem uncontrolled
But make a balanced whole in shades of green
What I hear are calls from nesting birds
The sway of breeze among forsythia’s gold
The patterned snails, the slugs cannot be heard
Nor can the slow worm’s wiser words be told
The pattern is a natural life, a wood
Where Cambridge monks had ponds and fruiting trees
Ten Cedars tall were chopped till dead
But still remain their long striped bees
Small in your eyes, infinite in mine
Such marvelled worlds can’t be designed
How my heart sings 