Come Spring-sun, come! Warm these hands!
Soiled-stained, the Gardener stands,
Reaching high and bending low,
Working as the cold winds blow.
Petals are a pretty sight–
Full-blown flowers in bright light
Decorate each hot July,
Wrens sing then and bumbles fly.
Passers-by call out “Free food!”
As if they have understood
What it takes to coax the fruit,
Unfurl leaf and swell the root.
We who joy to see the worm,
Unearthed accidentally, squirm,
Know the chill of early Spring
And the death that it can bring.
Still we hope early beginnings
Will result in fuller winnings
In the lottery of weather
From which gardens never sever.
Ten percent is lost, we say,
When we work soil the best way,
With organic methods, try
New crops under new Spring’s sky.
So we try again each year,
Dig in compost with good cheer,
Watch with hope seeds’ germination,
Fight bindweed’s determination.
By September, we still stand
Blackened foot and soiled hand,
Watching carefully to see
Signs of frost coming early.
But now at the start of growing
Season, with no fruit yet showing,
We imagine great returns
From each inch of soil we turn.
A garden is the triumph of
Hope o’er experience, with love.
What happened last year doesn’t matter;
New season’s here! There’s seed to scatter!