THE GARDEN

Nothing to do with me,

All that it grows:

Whatever I might see –

A vole, a rose.

Who gives, who takes away?

Look how it grieves,

How what shoots up today

Falls among thieves,

While in the dark I lie,

Failing to call,

Flailing to rise and cry

Mercy for all.

— Sarah Ruden

This poem appears in the October 19 print issue of National Review.