If it’s not the wind, it’s the cold.
If it’s not the cold, it’s
the absence of something:
a rake, a shovel, a hose, or time.
But when the stars at last align,
(though it’s still a week
before the last frost date)
I dig and scoop and position
herbs and flowers
with attention to color and height
to predilections toward sun or shade,
to their preferences for wet feet or dry.
They take their places, assigned
or inherited from hardy parents,
and launch their summer employment:
each leaf a potential poem,
each flower a fervent prayer.
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