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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