In the Garden

All the men are in the garden.
They are trading, but they are not doing business
Some of them win big.
Inside a glass house the windows are steamy and any cracks in the glass are covered
With electrical tape or cement that my father bought from the DIY shop.
Still through the cracks I peek at the garden outside and I've noticed how the plants change so much over time,
they seem not only to grow but to mutate or rather
Evolve.
In a glass house maintenance is never neglected.
In the center of this glass house there is a pedestal on which my father placed a pot,
in which my father planted the most beautiful plant
its silver leaves reflect the light of the sun and under a glass house they also get very hot.
Hot, heated, ferocious, this plant is so vicious in its beauty that I have rarely seen it.
Inside a glass house looking out
The garden has flourished this summer,
The men have been busy working, weeding,
Raking, writhing, wrestling with unruly weeds and mutinous insects.
Inside a glass house there is stillness,
A silver leaf would be heard to touch the floor if it dared,
My father is diligent, a pin will unlikely drop.
The men are in the garden and their hands are red from work
ragged fingernails and bulging veins, they mix the earth
the sun dries the mud on their palms, in the garden.
In a glass house silver leaves burn the eyes 
and In a glass house though you jump or stumble to save your sight the floor always holds you up
Then my father dons his gloves for pruning.
The door of this glass house lies open
And all the men are in the garden.