From the Fishouse

I return to find a prim new garden—
no bigger than a foyer.
It sits above true earth in planters,
a stoolpigeon shaken by the ankles
until the secret’s out.

The old one, though, hid nothing.
It seemed to stretch to the horizon
beside the first experiments: A stream
dammed up. A cloud assuming shapes.
The boys rolling down a hill
growing closer to sky.