Yet

Forty-six years ago we
Wed on an equinox, yet always
I am a pilgrim in her garden.
I am tired from trimming
Trees along the fence, yet,
Next year, even older like
Today, hope to descend
This ladder and lay my
Chainsaw in its box--
I am an old ox with a
New pain in my shoulder.
Yet, and yet it seems 
Sometimes like she and
I have only just met.

The Gardener's Farewell To Winter

Spirits torn in tears
And laughter rejoin
As east wind amassed
Moves undiminished
On --much happens after 
What happened last, yet,
Spirit is still unfinished.
It is resourceful, sturdy.
Clouds inquire from the
Sea, so don't be remorseful.
It only confuses me.