Garlic humming underground
Sends up now a different sound:
Tallish, reedy, like a flute
Sends up green and branchy shoot.
Potted bay sings other songs
To the sky for which it longs
Sees it for now behind glass
Waiting for the cold to pass.
Hollow blades of chives have run
First four inches toward the sun,
Spread below their hair-like roots,
Sends a thousand more offshoots.
Seed of carrots ruminates
Till in weeks it germinates,
But for now it lies in, teases
Fearing early Springish freezes.
Chervil dances, feather-fanned,
Far beyond what we had planned;
Briefly though it stands, and then
In the Fall comes back again.
Parsley slumps and safir, too,
Lying limp, but will renew
Their aggressive, pushy ways
Once they feel the warmer days.
Spread over whole garden plots;
Their pale blue innocent flowers
Mask their wild-prolific powers.
Harbingers like these remind us
In the cold, that Spring will find us:
Under our most crusty ways
Lie the seeds of better days.