In the unexpected, blessed sunshine of Spring,

I found myself, unexpectedly, weeding,

at the top of our grimly Wintered Garden.

Was I dreaming? I opened, wide, my eyes.

The garden, too, seemed to share my surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

"You didn’t bother last year, dear,

or much, indeed, the year before!”

I blanked the garden as I thought her rude!

 I don’t reply to rudeness anymore!

 

I pulled hard at the shallow, tangled, roots,

Each, straggly, trailing tendril, led to another.

Families sending out their sisters and brothers!

They came away in clumps of dark brown soil,

which smelled of earthy, peaty loam,

when I wiped that filthy witness from my hands,

and stood up, to gaze at the fruits of my toil.

Who knew that this old garden had so much soil?

 

My ideas, now gathered in a fine, tall pile,

all separate, and yet somehow connected,

formerly abandoned, now suddenly tended.

My thoughts, mind weeds, until expressed,

amended, tilled, trimmed and perfected.

Ideas, now blossoming words, which I can own.

 

My garden is shaped into a poetic form,

and the dewy green grass is freshly mown.

The abundant, new growth shines resplendent,

free from the foliage which was dead!

And the Garden and I are friends once again.

“You’ve done a right good job, John,” she said.