The promise of a garden: growth;

no guarantees this budding runs
proportionate to sweat and tears.

Our efforts and those blooms diverge

much as branches of these trees
following no certain paths

from toiled soil toward the sky.

Now time reminds us nothing may
coax gold roses from these thorns.

So glories in their mornings rise
according more to June's caprice
than perfect weather, states, or hopes,

confirming us, our humble part,
in nature's changing ways and art.