A Planting

The mid-May rain has softened the earth.
The garden trowel lifts and turns the darkened dirt;
Rich in color of last year’s compost –
It smells of worms and roots,
Things that crawl in the shadowside.

I pinch and pull intruding infant weeds,
Flagged with two faces like most enemies.

Mine is the task of planting.

With bare index finger holes are spaced:
One inch deep, two inches apart –
Again, and again, and again, and again.
I pinch and place intending seeds,
Entombed with resurrection –
Cover with fine soil,
Warmth of wandering sun,
Then go to fetch the water.

The earth has been culled and cut.
With hose in hand, brown bleeds into brown,
Hands washed,
Land watered – small puddles form upon and disappear.
Things will settle into place –
Wait, and wait, and wait, and wait.
Seed and man will be made new.