I should suppose, poets cherish gardens
where a seed, nurtured and properly loved
blooms into all things beautiful and right--
A crafty metaphor for life and verse.
I am supposed, I should suppose, to love
all flavors of sage flowers and fauna,
everything from forsythia to ferns.
But, I am frail and falter, I suppose.
So today, my back ached from long hours
of digging through and around stubborn roots,
planting orderly rows of Columbines
and Hostas, clawing in black muck and mud.
I saw crawling earthworms enough to know--
Gravid soil teemed with black-rot riches
An earthy oasis-- decay and dirt,
the fruits of my labor firmly rooted.
We all will be harvested all too soon,
Uprooted only to be planted one
last time. Short lived mayflies one and all.
Till we too are sown deep in muck and mud.
I rubbed my eyes with hands rolled in wet soil
Mulling over when I too am worm food--
buried deep, deep into dark dirt. Aren’t we
All waiting to celebrate death? I suppose.