I have, as it were, never gardened in clay soil,

Never tried to dig through pugs the size of Volkswagens,

But here I stand, pitchfork bowing, three broken shovels

And no end in sight.

 

It is good for me, this tenacious editing of sand and seeds,

Watering, hoeing, mourning losses and waiting for rain.

Never knowing whether the wind is bringing lightning or light,

Or driving me inside.

 

My dry soul, clay and waterless, has seen better days;

Arable days of tilth and tenderness,

When I stood, unbowed, seasoned with salt and liveliness;

Now merely the decrease of days.

 

When dry leaves will crumble.

When bitter winds will whine.

When harvest is over.

No covering of snow. No melting spring.

When seasons and seasoning lay quiet.

 

“Here she lies, a well-seasoned gardener.”