but am destined instead to look at others’
beds with admiration and envy.

I am not a gardener
though green-fingered men
have cultivated me.

I am not a gardener
though my Christmas tree lives
and keeps growing in the spring.

I am not a gardener -
more of a garden upkeeper -
but strawberries still appear.

I am not a gardener
so how do I explain this balcony’s show
of lavender, begonias, wildflowers?

Today’s poem is from Maeve O’Sullivan’s recent new collection, Where All Ladders Start (Alba Publishing)