It's Not With Them They Want His Rest

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.