Nephthytis Poem by MARINA GIPPS

My love grew like a vine-
bolivian gypsy or wandering jew,
you name it, the species clothed
like swedish ivy
in the green pithy distance now.

A garden that no rose could love
among so many baskets
of unsuspecting baby tears
and tortured rabbit's foot ferns,
the blue bearded iris shaking it head
just before wilting in the autumn dawn.

I'm not amazed that I'm a garden tiller,
trying to grow something
with the dirt in my skin.