Wilder

The garden was always mostly in rebellion, a place more of mud, and then of weeds, than of the seeds we planted. It rambled like a monster howling on a perch above the few wild places that remain, losing its voice into the night.

We squint to see the plan we came up with in the springtime, the design we liked to believe could be ours to impose on the land. We were certain to lose our way, to fall behind, and only limp now in autumn to this bench worn with years of sun and frost, to sit in the cooling long light and think about what we might have done.