Elizabeth spends summer afternoons
Leaning over roses and potatoes,
In radiant concentration as she prunes.
Zeno's thoughts are less with her than Plato's
As she snips and clips in steeply slanted light,
Blessed alike by tulips and tomatoes.
Each creature yearns to be, but never quite
Touches what it is, as dissonant tunes
Hover at the silent edge of night.