Jeffrey Hull

Wicked Garden

I have a wicked garden
   Where nothing ever grows;
It grants no flower pardon
   To grace its barren rows.

This sorry plot I planted,
   The fault must rest with me;
Fair furrows I was granted,
   I chose their destiny.

The rows I sowed with rock salt
   And watered them with bile
'Til ground as hard as asphalt
   Would make the Devil smile.

With beauties of creation
   Resplendent all around,
The seed for its salvation
   Now falls on barren ground.

And once or twice toward heaven
   I turned my cursed´ eyes,
Perhaps my soul to leaven
   But saw naught there save skies.

And so I watch this garden
   Where nothing ever grew —
I do not need a scarecrow:
   My threadbare mind will do.


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull