I become a night gardener
The nippy freshness welcomes me
While a palpable pause listens
To my unexpected footsteps.
I hesitate upon hearing the garden
Resting, taking stock in the silence
For this time I am the prowler,
The one rustling and scurrying
Preparing sawdust and soil
To heel the roses in.
Towards midnight, under a shelter
Of serrated night-cloud and stars
Rose roots keen for their freedom
And I am grounded in rose-thoughts
Once more: their song is the ballad of the earth
More lovely than daffodils yet so prickly.
I, diligent learner, work in the dark
Ready for rampant ramblings.
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