Volume 3, Number 4
April, 1998
Garden Morn
hot sun on my back burning
grit in my shoe
seeds of shovel spills
moist earth of garden turning
countless weeds reluctant
to release a grip on
cracks in bricks
leather gloves turn brown
sweat drips on stones stacked in
wheel-barrow's well
I grunt to lift one out
slam it into place
the corner of a new bed
and warm earth comforms
the shovel spreads soft earth
and smooths it into place
fertile dirt flirts
earthworms cringe
and writhe
waiting
for springs planting
pleased,
I straighten up
my back groans in protest
and sun burns
tender winter's skin
while nippers clip shaggy shrubs
and dead branches fall
onto the evenings campfire
as I wrestle with the growing yard
cajoling and encouraging
attempting to impose
a banzai shell of
enlightenment
on this unruly nature
who cooperates with me
facilitates a growing art
satisified
and tired
I bless the sun
salute the yard
with clippers, hat and hoe,
but linger to caress a bloom
and notice Comfrey sniggering
from bed of yarrow hiding place
attack with shovel
digging deep
finding roots like
water pipes,
with greasy and sinuous look
I dig with frantic haste
persue this pest
with strong distaste
quit, steve, quit now
before it's too late
there's things to do
and bills to pay;
I drag myself away,
I'll come to play
another day
-- Steve Ringle