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. 

Odd Corner

Caladium comes up in
An odd nook, a corner
In sun and shade--
A decision made in
Tropism, inarguable.
A crowd of leaves,
Earlike, listen to a
Logic of soil and light.
This gardener never
Disturbs what is
So soundly right.

Hello Bead

Thanks for planting
Rosemary where she
Blooms so far ahead
Of season--good reason
For waking early.
We nearly had to
Pillage reserves back
At the hive, taking
Our future to stay
Alive, but now, now
There's something,
Something fine to frame
Our door into springtime.
                   --Your Friend Bead. 

After Rain

After rain, ideas sown
In drought assemble
And sprout  under light.
The past is perfected 
In darkness, in night.

Even our words,
So deeply rooted 
In the past, are
Refitted for the
Future --now.
Now is simply a
Suture, aligning
Language into 
More, ideas we've
Never had before.

Orbiting

On our bench--
She arranged a
Row: potted pansy,
Daffodil, grape hyacinth--
From soil, seed,
Bulb, and a
Planet's path
Under its flame.
To each, as
To ourselves,
We give a name.

Backseat Buddha

We'll set him
Beside the sundial
Where an ant on an
Analemma gnomon
Climbs a code
Across light,
Across seasons--
When color reclaims
This old gray road.
It too may
Overlay itself for
All I know.
Things come, go.
Things do.
New lives enter.
I like winter,
Don't you?