The Business of Gardening

Some people sell their soul
for a handful of dirt,
With this I become a gardener.
In Autumn I tend my garden
burying an array of bulbs,
insular as Winter sets in
last seasons individual dies.
On sharing a sacred heart
as fern fronds slowly unfold, I
rotate layers under sunshine
while stem and petal scent
a pairing, I returned that dirt
knowing my value. Vivid colour
cutting blue skies, I become
a bird opening my wings
and taking flight, returning dust
to soil. Don’t talk to me
about anything but the earth,
the sunshine and the sweet taste
of honey. I became a gardener
knowing, Spring brings renewal.

(c) A Hannan

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One thought on “The Business of Gardening

  1. The dust of the fields, clinging to my feet,
    Sang a Summer hymn with laughter replete,
    Called unto my skin, moth and firefly,
    Smeared me a field, hidden beneath the sky.

    Autumn’s dew found its way down to my eyes,
    Caressing softly, quenched away my sighs,
    Breathed upon my skin, the freshness of change,
    Swayed my leaves that fell, traceless the calm range.

    Winter’s cold snow immersed my bare body,
    Buried all my seeds which death did carry,
    Crept upon my skin, a barren, old song,
    Lulled me to sleep, while his might blew cold strong.

    Spring’s rosy fragrance dipped my blooming eye,
    Stroke my buds to light, the scent of the sky,
    Poured on my skin, the waters of the peak,
    Again gave me wings, rose and smile to seek.

    The seasons pressed their lips, march eternal,
    Beating my warm heart, now wild, now idyll,
    A garden lost somewhere, high amid mounts,
    Teeming with life, always, with many founts.

    As to your value…

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