THIS SEASON
The moon tonight is a marble,
perfect and white.
See it there
above the rows of trees
bare-limbed and angular
lifting hands
as if in prayer
in the valley
that continues forever.
Comes dawn and warmth for
the slumbering bed of seeds
laid in rows like soldiers,
mute, and obedient to the seasons.
Comes a drizzle of rain
and baby fingers unfold,
reach for the yellow hot goodness
of sun.
Comes the gardener
Who tends the struggling army
defends it against the enemy,
the battalions of flying and crawling insects
and the dryness of earth;
She sprays, hoes,
waits for the hostage stems to unfurl,
to stretch, to uncurl.
Comes the leaves,
the unfolding flowers, and then…
ah yes,
the plant ripe with fruit,
the scent of Eden in the air!
© Dianne Bates
Lovely Di.
A terrific poem, Di!
Lovely images in this sequence. I wish gardening always ended like this.
Hi Jeanie, Love it Robyn