This garden is the story
Told and retold.
The good work,
After the thaw.
Of digging into it,
Thick and deep,
With both hands.
Dark and heavy
Dirt under the nails,
The stains of soil that speak
of productive labour.
Our blisters,
Backs,
Aching, though
We have dug here before
And will dig here again.
Again, the flowers will grow,
Blooms open to beauty,
Ebullience, awe,
Warm our hearts,
Blooms grow to fruit,
Leaf to vegetable,
Fill our stomachs,
Sate our hungers,
Our hopes of harvest not for
Nothing
Until cold comes,
Until day is short,
Night is long,
Longer,
The heady high,
The heart of joy of autumn ends in
Leafless trees.
Grey seems forever.
Hope is lost.
In this cold,
Nothing grows
Nothing blooms.
This is the story told and told again.
This garden. These trees.
This labour.
This.