You know how it happens--
one day you're sifting seed into soil,
cropping the hedges, comfortable breezes
grazing your skin. . .
but before long
sycamore leaves crackle
beneath your feet. . . 
pine and brier resist,
but the garden aches and declines
until it is impossible to mend.

A horde of starving caterpillars
swarms my chair, beguiled
by the iron flowers wrought
into its legs and arms and back;
most of them will surely die
before they come to realize
their careless mistake.