The garden goddess brought me
a daphne—perfect, I thought,
thinking of the nymph,

who, unhappily pursued by
a man she didn’t want, transformed
herself into a laurel tree.

This newcomer to my garden
has not yet flowered—again,
perfect for the virgin

who chose to remain so,
today planted firmly in good soil
by my garden goddess friend,

herself an independent woman
who chose her love carefully,
who nurtures it mindfully,

as she is teaching me to do
with the plants. None of them,
like us, is immortal—some may

not flourish where they’ve
been planted—but we admire
them for who they are,

living and growing in the world
at their own pace, for as long as
they can, whether or not

they perform as we wish,
whether or not they look or act
like others around them.

•••