Christopher Levy: ‘The Artless Gardener’

The Artless Gardener I was an artless gardener. Death was my special thing. I had no special training, No genius did I bring, I knew not why my garden grew; I could not read the signs, My gardening was curated Upon arbitrary lines.

I inherited my garden With life’s initial breath, My garden is forsaken at the Moment of my death. This is not a morbid thought. It is just a fact of life, But I cannot help but think, Had I ever married wife That my garden might continue In safer pairs of hands.



Nature can be fickle. Lives join on shifting sands, life’s Gamble played with precious stake Of lifelong needs and deeds. And so, Our gardens grow according To the placement of our seeds— Our task, to try to separate The roses from the weeds.

Young lives can be rewarding, And hormonally obsessive, If given half a chance, To seek out opportunity For wild and brief romance. They do not care one jot, for all That muddled, scattered seed. My youth was much the same (though never chance to breed).

How can a thing be wasted, yet Meet garden’s primal needs? Psychologists might say there is No waste in sowing “wild oat” seeds. Our lives are lived in gardens. They grow with our desire.

Our gardens live entangled With the roses and the briar. My garden aged less wild, I even clipped the borders. Maturity has its way of Healing youth’s disorders.

Commitment, love and duty, Define our passion’s needs, And now I have no need at all To scatter my few seeds. Christopher Levy.