Tuesday, February 28, 2017


Just yesterday, it seems,
I gathered the dirt up in my hands
And found the soil too dry
To do much good--
Dismal earth for bulbs.
Yet, I carried on planting,
Gently, though without care.
An abandonment.
Like newly-nestled orphans
Snug on the abbey stair.
You were not conscious of me,
Nor I of the life nascent in you.
And still you grew--
Through October’s distilled chill;
Frost-harbinging November;
December-quiet, in place of cheer—
Still, you grew there.
Did I think of you?
No, not once.
Why, you lay buried! And brown!
Perhaps you guessed of Spring.
Or knew of garden tombs and things
That I know now.

I last saw you, late April,
Tall-green, blooming path-side,
And asked you, if you will, to grow,
Grow with me still.