No Glory

My northern garden, never well maintained,
Has failed to blossom. When I fail like this,
I choose among exasperation, bliss,
And puzzlement, the last being ingrained.
My friends are unimpressed: my hands are stained,
The grass is brown, the snakes rattle and hiss,
And, aiming for the harvest moon, I miss;
The moon is shrinking, and the stars have waned.

This may have been an uninspiring gaffe,
An error, a mistake. I realize
No glory, only endless compromise,
A spot where all the meaner children laugh.
But I continue, and I plant my staff
And pray the roses and tomatoes rise.