Good gardening is midwifery.
Don't be afraid to finger the root,
testing nerves of mycelia, sending thumbs
along the bone of Spring, blindly probing
the dark, guided by a spasm of bulbs,
turning the breached child toward its world.
Don't be afraid to tap absences, black holes
where fur sleeps, curled in a dream of moons,
seeds hunker in secret white heat, or to probe
among the buds where beaks weave
twigs into a whirling stillness for the egg.
Be your own ember.
The sun might disappoint you.
The destination is gray stuff in cocoons,
neither wing nor worm.
You pretend to know the conclusion,
but the journey dissolves in crepuscule,
a deer path winding back into the green
gloom of wildness, a labyrinth, with you
forever standing at the center, lost.
It's been raining all day. Feral poppies
poke red dwarf stars from vigils of loam,
enchanted by the grief of sky.
What is your knowledge compared
to the yearning of the shadow for its cause?
Let darkness be your asymptote. Bend light.
Winter nearly touches Spring now.
Just keep dancing at the center of dusk,
coaxing hyacinths to bloom
from the hollow between your thoughts,
encouraging clouds to breathe, push, crown...
deliver the raindrop.
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