Gardens are also good places
 

to sulk. You pass beds of
 

spiky voodoo lilies   
 

and trip over the roots   
 

of a sweet gum tree,   
 

in search of medieval   
 

plants whose leaves,   
 

when they drop off   
 

turn into birds
 

if they fall on land,
 

and colored carp if they   
 

plop into water.
 

Suddenly the archetypal   
 

human desire for peace   
 

with every other species   
 

wells up in you. The lion   
 

and the lamb cuddling up.
 

The snake and the snail, kissing.
 

Even the prick of the thistle,   
 

queen of the weeds, revives   
 

your secret belief
 

in perpetual spring,
 

your faith that for every hurt   
 

there is a leaf to cure it.

Gardens are also good places
 

to sulk. You pass beds of
 

spiky voodoo lilies   
 

and trip over the roots   
 

of a sweet gum tree,   
 

in search of medieval   
 

plants whose leaves,   
 

when they drop off   
 

turn into birds
 

if they fall on land,
 

and colored carp if they   
 

plop into water.
 

Suddenly the archetypal   
 

human desire for peace   
 

with every other species   
 

wells up in you. The lion   
 

and the lamb cuddling up.
 

The snake and the snail, kissing.
 

Even the prick of the thistle,   
 

queen of the weeds, revives   
 

your secret belief
 

in perpetual spring,
 

your faith that for every hurt   
 

there is a leaf to cure it.

Gardens are also good places
 

to sulk. You pass beds of
 

spiky voodoo lilies   
 

and trip over the roots   
 

of a sweet gum tree,   
 

in search of medieval   
 

plants whose leaves,   
 

when they drop off   
 

turn into birds
 

if they fall on land,
 

and colored carp if they   
 

plop into water.
 

Suddenly the archetypal   
 

human desire for peace   
 

with every other species   
 

wells up in you. The lion   
 

and the lamb cuddling up.
 

The snake and the snail, kissing.
 

Even the prick of the thistle,   
 

queen of the weeds, revives   
 

your secret belief
 

in perpetual spring,
 

your faith that for every hurt   
 

there is a leaf to cure it.

Gardens are also good places
 

to sulk. You pass beds of
 

spiky voodoo lilies   
 

and trip over the roots   
 

of a sweet gum tree,   
 

in search of medieval   
 

plants whose leaves,   
 

when they drop off   
 

turn into birds
 

if they fall on land,
 

and colored carp if they   
 

plop into water.
 

Suddenly the archetypal   
 

human desire for peace   
 

with every other species   
 

wells up in you. The lion   
 

and the lamb cuddling up.
 

The snake and the snail, kissing.
 

Even the prick of the thistle,   
 

queen of the weeds, revives   
 

your secret belief
 

in perpetual spring,
 

your faith that for every hurt   
 

there is a leaf to cure it.