So much of our lives depends on accidents of birth, time, and geography. This haunts me. In some lives, few "or"s are possible. The pain of that is behind the second stanza of this poem.

How fragile we are, between the few good moments.

I'd say that the middle stanza is closer: that's the place where the poem ranges unexpectedly into a different realm.

An ordinary hole beside a path through the woods might begin to open to altered worlds.

At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink. What I've chosen, what's happened unchosen, can't be unmade or redone. Poetry, though, is a door that only continues to open. Even the unchangeable past changes inside a poem. Not the facts, but the feeling, the comprehension.

This garden is no metaphor - more a task that swallows you into itself, earth using, as always, everything it can.

How silently the heart pivots on its hinge.