Poor thing, first stock still
staring as I watered the patch
catching me by surprise,
so tentative, an injured
creature with one eye.
Second time huddled
beneath a window
as if contemplating one
it knows as the gardener,
waiting for some gesture
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Slipping away to read
by candlelight
where possibilities of peace
cartwheel
through words scribbled and redrafted
and tactile, books;
though news roars in
bombastic and crude, scapegoats
behind every wick.
Music flickers, not snuffed nor dimmed-
Steady, an ark.
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Now winter hovers above a patch
still under the spell of sun, ageratum
as blue as the sky, artemisia silver
wings in flight. Miner birds tap
dance through this feisty day
while hardy vines set out, hiking
towards spring.
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As if a spot of summer had drifted
in from the north, the morning path
sun-baked in serenity until a cloud,
longer than the islands and darker
than woodland night itself, stopped
by resolutely and stubbornly. Then
an eyelid closed on this once endless
space and day came to an abrupt end.
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June, a turkey and a moon
on a wintery day when sun
drew circles on footstepping
birds singing in the lightness
of day. Rising early, a moon
sat still and round in the crisp
blue sky while a brush turkey
wandered the sleeping suburb
among the leaves of home.
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Midnight. The hour when night
spreads out like a city, lights
slowly dimmed and a haze
of quiet settling on the patch.
That hour when looking back laps
away from the rush of thought.
This long night, loping towards
the first commute of morning
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Cold blew in gently this time
a broom sweeping autumn
into neat piles, promising, not
winter, but a return of sorts.
Such a reflective moment
in between planting and hiatus.
Meadows wait their turn.
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