It's Not With Them They Want His Rest Poem by Mark Heathcote

We've all seen wood violets circling
like a purple mushroom ring
but they aren't by choice our guest
to us, they're an unwelcome pest.

When a gardener a poet ages, it's not
with them, he wants his laurels laid
it's not with them, Forget-Me-Nots
he wants his bones arrayed.

It's not with them he-wants his rest
but in some songbirds, cawing nest.
Feathers pumping out of breast
with a newborn song in his chest.

It's not with them they-want to rest
forgetting some border still not divest
of flowers and beauty acquiesced
still, not completely made, manifest.

When a gardener a poet ages, it's not
With them, wood violets growing low
They want to truncate or finally lodge
It's not with them or treetop mistletoe.

But at some higher unknown level
one wants the earth burgeoning
and the other wants it chirruping
with all the birds celestial.