The morning:
a mess of puddled paper, packed
wet wood
and labels, labels.
Leaves everywhere;
plants and pots and...how
many pansies?
Are all those lobelias? All?
The afternoon:
running, scrabbling, grubbing,
pondering;
and then the urgent snatch at
snips and slips
of potted-up creation.
The hands
attached to determined ‘doers’,
noisy and passing as May-bugs,
equipped with large plastic bags
(clean)
for cornflowers and cabbages,
tomatoes and tradascantia:
“Are you reducing yet?” and their
gardens
plots of weeds.
And the other hands,
hardened in easy earth,
with roughened nails and
love-scarred backs,
gentle as caterpillars;
the wise ones;
the ones with the humble stoop,
searching for slow change in
careful pockets,
the deep, enchanting smile;
“Is that all?” and their gardens
touched with paradise.
They have always known that
creation
doesn’t come cheap.
(May,
1988)
