April Garden Poetry

spring

expectation is a blanket on my garden soil
time it is to make room for new life
	prune, compost the dead
for the earth is pregnant
time it is to prepare for expectations

mine is a northern soul
bred and refined in the seasons
	of swelling and contracting, living and dying
my days are marked elliptically
each turn is flowing with expectation

and so 'tis time to heed the warming days
time again for burgeoning joy
	turning the dark soil, shortening the dark nights
this miraculous annual genesis
time it is for fecund expectations

to watch and wait is a great gift
a wonder of quiet awe and robust laughter
	time for preparation, cultivation
each turn of the wheel brings it round
yet i will never tire of this season of expectation

who is that paints my garden

who is it that paints the rainbow
	in my garden 
   in golden light and lemon candy
   raspberry and royal purple
   in green, blue, red, orange, pink
	in spring?
is it you, old madam hare,
   with your slow, solemn gaze
   in brown eyes, brown velvet
	and so buddha calm?
or you robin-red-breast,
   cheerfully singing in the twilight
   in sable and rust plumes?
or have you with sharp ears, sharp eyes
   caught sprites or spirits
   with ghostly palette
	painting the rainbow
   in my starlit garden?
i have not seen, or heard
   but i am too hurried
	and not quick enough.
i have not heard, or seen
	who paints in my spring garden
but it gladdens my heart all the same.