Ink Tea Stone Leaf

The garden made a holy resolution,
raising from the soil, lithe and green,
a form refined by vicious evolution—
grasping at the trellis like a bean,
adorned with fragile blossoms in the morning
light, a delicate chemise of white,
and bearing twilit fruit for night's aborning
stars, the touch of Venus brushing Mars—
and have the jays been feeding from the cherries,
do they carry stones to yonder field?
The climbing tendrils, have their fruits been sweetened
by the heat, and will the garden yield?
A silly question for a sunny day
will treat the mind as reason whiles away.