Funny how it goes unnoticed,
when your face is pushed into the loam
all those trailing hours suspended in time.

In the garden you'll become one of three things: 
another busy, busy animal, 
another serene plant, steadily growing,
or another force of nature in the garden.

Naturally they ask 'Which one are you?'
I scratch lines to beautify, and to be clear
perhaps they should ask 'which one are you, today?'

Anyhow, I no longer own a garden
but a snow white page: a new year's day view
from an upper window.

'...and how many trowels have you got?'