For the seventh autumn in a row,
The landscaper receives a written request:
Trim the foliage outside 2 Pardes Street.
As before, enclosed is a generous check—
An amount far greater than the task should merit.

Uneasy again, he tries to address the excess,
Reaching out to The Beresit Foundation –
The name embossed in gold at the top.
But no address appears, no number to call,
And nothing, as before, turns up in any search.

He returns to Pardes in his aging truck
And tries the garden door. Locked as before.
He knocks, then peers through the wire lattice mesh
And waits. No answer, no footsteps, no voice.
Yet the garden within is tended to perfection.

He finishes the trimming as in years before.
The result is fine, though the wall still wears its grime,
So, unbidden, having a cleaner and water for his next job,
He washes the wall himself, free of charge.

Finished, he gathers his tools and prepares to depart,
But before he leaves, he pauses to reflect on his work,
And there he sees the garden door ajar.