When spring arrives you turn the earth over.
The long-handled spade brings worm tunnels to light.
Robins carry the feast to young beaks. You unearth
rocks, roots, colonies of ants. Heave
a stone the size of an elephant's foot
into the mulch pile behind the house,
catch sweat as it drips from your lip to your tongue,
break up clumps of dirt with a rake,
carve the furrows with the hoe; sow the seeds
which are the seeds of hope because
you just might get back
what you put in. So you persist,
hose in hand - the fine spray of water
from the reservoir in the hills,
more than you need. What you want
is another story. What you want
lies dormant in the moist garden
of your soul - ever ready to sprout and grow.