Terraces bordered with strong stone
lie open to the promise of the sky,
to tender rituals of daily care:
this is my last garden born through pain.
Should a little night rain fall,
this gentle earth, if tended well,
an edible life will bear, and more
of all that we call beautiful.
Of all the edens I have sown,
my last garden, sown of love,
I like to think will be the finest
grown, bequeathed in hope and trust.
I cannot tell if last be least or best.
Other hands will plant the seed I leave.
Tend it well for me in tenderness and love,
for this is what my garden is and what I give.