Seed Time

In winter the back garden's dead

beneath the snow and mulch, a bed

for pots, the Christmas tree,

tomato stakes, abandoned stuff

we do not want when weather's rough.

We do not care to see

it when we pass it by. Graveyard

afraid we hold our breath, wish hard,

and chant "green cow" for luck.

But then they come, defying clocks

and calendars — the letterbox

so full the lid is stuck.

Like quiet widows in dove gray

who sport flamboyant lingerie

beneath their modest skirts

they're more than they appear. Unfold

their petals, spread their pages. Hold 

their lushness. Feel the dirt 

grow warm between your empty hands.

These promises can break the bands

of winter. End our yearly doom.

And seed. And bud. And bloom.

Up on the Moon

"Every day, more than a metric ton of meteoroids hits the Moon."

I kneel and dig my hands into the ground —

half prayer, half practicality this spring.

Up on the moon, the sky is falling down

while here below I sift and turn the brown

earth, align my seeds with bits of string.

I kneel and dig my hands into the ground

and turn my back to heaven's endless round

of disarray. The planets chime and spin,

and on the moon the sky is falling down.

Well let it fall. I'm safe below. I'll drown

celestial fears with work at earthly things.

I kneel and dig my hands into the ground.

This plot is firm, at least. This sturdy mound

should hold me steady — but the air is thin,

and on the moon the sky is falling down.

So what can we rely on now? The sound

of spade in soil? This work? The way roots cling?

My hands cannot dig deep enough. The ground

spins like the moon. The sky is falling down.