[in the garden]

I saw you enter by the gate, whistling,
pockets full of seeds, spade in hand - preparing for springtime

day after day you came, breaking up hard ground
turning the soil, singing soft and sometimes silly songs

things sprouted - green and lovely. profuse profusion.
you leaned against the wall, grinning in the sun

i grinned back.

the season changed, ripening
the scent of harvest lingered in the air                                                                  dedicated to JMS, who leads me to the garden every day,                                                                                                                                                                                                                           and in memory of our first child

i put on my boots, ran out to meet you.
you had no spade, no basket, only shears.

there was no song, and your shears were serious
i could tell: you had come to prune the garden.

if i hadn't seen your joy as you planted here,
i would have stopped you at the gate,
cried Thief! Thief! and tried to push you out

but i saw it.

even as you cut off tender branches
i could see joy in your eyes

Gardener, i do not understand.
except that this is your garden
and i know you love to sing
& watch things grow...