Gardens There are gardens that ripen on their own. bear fruit, soft- centred, thin slips of skin, like good conversation, a thought thinking nothing ahead of itself. This garden is a worry of homesteader peas and norland reds, leaves thick and veined in bordered rows kept smelling of clay. In an obsession of frost, each word falls short of growing heavy and sweet, seeds spilling from globes filled with breath, swollen with sky.