The Old Rose Garden Poem by Zyw Zywa

In the garden, people pick
plums and pears, they bake pies
from the bitter apples, they play lute and flute
in the old, old rose garden

On the stone, the light burns
the belly of the lamp, chock-full
of oil, is rubbed, I rake the paths
up to the jetties in the old, old star sea

A hedgehog rummages, centuries pass
children on the bench dangle their legs
and I rake the paths, the birds sing
the song of the beginning, the old, old song