The wise gardener tends to his garden;
lush and green, ripe in seeded core,
and sprouting within high walls
built on homely comforts.
Strange fog slithers from beyond,
its smokey fingers cold and dead
reaching forth a silent choke;
no end, unknown dread.
Gardener shivers, gardener trembles,
where will roots breathe beneath this siege.
A moment's quiet and he smiles,
closed eyes relinquish misted lies;
sun returns and so does warmth,
open dawn, the fog is gone
The wise gardener tends to his garden.