Nature’s Rhythm

The rain buckets are full.

We still rug up inside yawning

To keep warm.

 

Rose flourish spurts

On towards budding as

The early bloomer

 

Sends out signs of change.

I am no gardener

Except a cliché

 

Makes me feel so:

That the hard work

Has helped something

 

Grow, if also satisfaction

Bred of digging and pruning

And lifting bags of soil

 

And trees, shrubs, seedlings

The thrill of mail order

Packages with tenderlings

 

Poking tiny green leaflets

In a new air. The promise

Of a certain predictability

 

Plays a rhythm

In my meadowpatch;

How nature bestows some

 

Confidence mulched in

With the pellets of dynamic

Lifter and citrus food.

 

My cherry tree waits

For spring

When you were born

 

Eyeing this world

With a quizzical curiosity,

Nearly twenty-one years ago.

 

 

 
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