Written in My Garden

by George Freek

People move like ants
along the busy street.
What incomprehensible life
once moved beneath their feet?
It was there for millions
of years but left only bones,
graves unmarked with any stones.
Life is a mystery
I’m unable to solve.
I look at the stars.
I stare at the sun.
After futile thoughts,
the questions remain,
so I tend my roses,
and I’m no closer
than when I’d first begun.