Now spring is here. The scent of soil is full Of loam and promise. Lift the dead with spades And rakes and cast them to the heap. The seeds That rattled loose in winter winds retrieve Until the bed is laid. The rake and hoe Are brought to bear on rocks and clumps of soil. And yet the moment comes when tools are cast Aside and worker's hands must pluck the weeds. In reverence the dirt is nursed, then torn Asunder, carved as beds of furrowed earth.
Now summer brings a triumph. Green and gold With thyme and bay in rippling rows and wheat A luminescent glory. Grapes for wine, And grain for beer, and apples ripen full For cider. Prune and pluck and groom the soil, Then walk in pathways limned with blooms as bright As banners. Crysanthemum and violet And amaranth and marigold. They shine, A balm to tired feet and busy minds, This fecund paradise of luscious growth.
Now autumn comes. The harvest gathered, fruit And nut and root. The laden branches gleam Unclothed. The earth is butchered, torn apart, The roots are jointed, the flesh removed, the trash Returned, the wealth preserved in jars and bins. The fields are wrapped inside a shroud of stalks And leaves. A mournful ghost bestirs a stand Of bones. Then white and soft the blanket falls, The earth asleep in death. I face that death With faith, for winter always turns to spring.
Now spring is here. The scent of soil is full
Of loam and promise. Lift the dead with spades
And rakes and cast them to the heap. The seeds
That rattled loose in winter winds retrieve
Until the bed is laid. The rake and hoe
Are brought to bear on rocks and clumps of soil.
And yet the moment comes when tools are cast
Aside and worker's hands must pluck the weeds.
In reverence the dirt is nursed, then torn
Asunder, carved as beds of furrowed earth.
Now summer brings a triumph. Green and gold
With thyme and bay in rippling rows and wheat
A luminescent glory. Grapes for wine,
And grain for beer, and apples ripen full
For cider. Prune and pluck and groom the soil,
Then walk in pathways limned with blooms as bright
As banners. Crysanthemum and violet
And amaranth and marigold. They shine,
A balm to tired feet and busy minds,
This fecund paradise of luscious growth.
Now autumn comes. The harvest gathered, fruit
And nut and root. The laden branches gleam
Unclothed. The earth is butchered, torn apart,
The roots are jointed, the flesh removed, the trash
Returned, the wealth preserved in jars and bins.
The fields are wrapped inside a shroud of stalks
And leaves. A mournful ghost bestirs a stand
Of bones. Then white and soft the blanket falls,
The earth asleep in death. I face that death
With faith, for winter always turns to spring.
Reply
And rakes and cast them to the heap
and then The earth is butchered, torn apart,
Yes. that's what gardening is often like.
Reply
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