Beneath the lattice
Of heavy vines,
A garden grows
Where no sun shines.
No roses bloom
In neat, straight lines.
Weeds they call them
In groups like shrines.
A rabbit hole
Not marked by signs.
The broken things
In the confines
Beneath the lattice
Of heavy Vines.

Behind hedges
That stand in rows,
In summertime
A stream that flows,
And nests of birds
Where no one knows
And fawns are born
From still-young does.
A secret path
Where no one goes;
Not gardeners
Or girls with bows,
Behind hedges
That stand in rows.