My name is Mary Lennox,
and I really am contrary.
So don't even ask me how my garden grows.
But somehow it does.
Pretty maids lined up in some sort of row.
But that's not a real garden.
It's just a little rhyme that people sing about me.
If we're talking real gardens,
I guess I'll let you in on my secret.
I took a bit of earth.
I stole a garden.
It seemed dead to me.
But the longer I was there,
the more I realized it was wick.
Wick means alive.
But I'm clearing out what's dead,
the scritch-scratch that's been there forever.
And I'm making a space.