The Poetry of
Jack Scott


Villages do not last,
are built upon villages
that did not last.

Whatever we were
we almost are
and this is close enough,
whatever we expected.
Neither of us is who
the other thought we were.
I care for you a garden a year, a flower a day.
I greet you, stranger,
bouquet in hand.


347 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.