I did not need malice to murder
the little Juniper, thin in its pot.
She said, “Have you watered?” and I heard her
though earnest and honest, I simply forgot.
One can forget for a day, there is pardon,
But if one forgets for a week, maybe not.
True in love and as true in the garden;
the root and the branch need more than a thought
or the green shoots will wither and harden
and shallow roots tie themselves in a knot.
Now its dead little limbs I discard in
the bin with the rest I have left out to rot.
I have killed with a love far too moderate;
I couldn’t be bothered to water it.