“Gardening is an instrument of grace.” — May Sarton
I seek sunlight, haul poetry into spring garden,
settle among bearded iris, cascading alyssum,
scribble in my journal and read.
Swallows discover a white hair strand,
carry orphan ringlet under roof eave,
weave a piece of me into their nest.
A boorish jay perches on power line,
bobs and croaks, showing off for his mate.
I dead-head spent geraniums, pluck dandelions.
All in all, it’s a productive afternoon: solar vitamin D,
rough draft of new verse, only one broken fingernail,
soul soothed by industry, smudge of dirt on my face.