The doctor has a garden full of healing
(imagine for yourself the way it looks)
where she consults her patients, not the books,
and they, so self-assuredly unfeeling,
prescribe their cure—coincidentally hers.
The chives bloom mauve, the parsley runs to seed,
the thyme trespasses on the path; she says
she doesn’t hold with single purposes,
and digs out native violets like weeds,
transfers them to a bed that she prefers.
She plants herself beside the apricot,
admires its teardrop leaves through half-closed eyes,
recalls a few odd jobs that she forgot,
and gardener and garden synthesise.