On Gardners’ World, Monty Don Leaves the Pond Plants Untrimmed in Deference to the Tadpoles

I must work around them he says. Guides 
his wooden cart to other ground. 

I have long regarded myself as the gardener, 
pledged to the care of small things. But how often

have I been the frog, sheltered in the unnoticed
care of another? Benevolence 

misreckoned as my own resolve. In the screen light, 
gratefulness finds me — 

or it will. When I’ve found my way
out of being the pond. I’m unmoving

water, still winter-cold. I’m skirted 
with stone. So heavy where I’m hemmed.