Orange crates mar the perfection of this garden:
Some sort of modern art cacophony against the English classical Rose.
She is there too, some nymph among the roses, naked and dewed
With the kind of seductive perfection that I can never hope to meet.
There’s a small sapling that grows beneath the crate marked #3.
It’s lucky to be there. Every other weed in this garden has been plucked:
Poison for the art that is Man’s unyielding will.
His crew of fifteen Mexicans that trek out daily to ensure His power
Don’t notice the Wild green stem that has broken free from the soft, warm, earth.
And one day, if the one they call Martinez doesn’t trip over that crate,
Noticing the simple flower that I have chosen to relay my fate,
I will stop in wonder, and caress each of that wild weed’s soft white petals
And ponder if the Dictator of All things, truly does love me.
Jennifer van Alstyne is editor-in-chief of The Monmouth Review. She is currently working on a collection of poetry based on the life and music of 20th century composer, Glenn Gould.