There is dirt from this garden br Under my fingernails, br And in the cuffs of my trousers. br I alone prune the roses that loom br With thorny, threatening fragrance br Around my head; br I alone uproot the grass, br The bindweed and thistle; br Clearing dead branches from the olive tree; br Removing that which does not belong, br Adding promise to the possible. br So, if this garden is anything other than wild br I alone am responsible for its civility. br br Do not tell me I cannot, that I do not, br Own this garden; br Or that I tend it for someone else br Whom I have never seen, br And possibly never will. br For though I often despise the effort, br Though I curse the ground br And the grantor in fee, br I know my claim to this garden. br This is the seisin that I have received: br It is under my fingernails; br I empty it every evening br From the cuffs of my trousers.