In Perpetual Spring
--Amy Gerstler 

Gardens are also good places
to sulk. You pass beds of
spiky voodoo lilies 
and trip over the roots 
of a sweet gum tree, 
in search of medieval 
plants whose leaves, 
when they drop off 
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they 
plop into water. 

Suddenly the archetypal 
human desire for peace 
with every other species 
wells up in you. The lion 
and the lamb cuddling up.
The snake and the snail, kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle, 
queen of the weeds, revives 
your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt 
there is a leaf to cure it.