|Jul/Aug 2000 Poetry|
Gardening by Moonlight
Weed or not-weed becomes irrelevant
with the dandelion folded tight
about its thousand sunspears.
On my knees in shadow
as the moon observes,
I thin the radishes by touch:
small cold clinging pairs
of damp leaves stick to my fingers;
stem thread roots must die
so my salad days are filled.
Pruning rose stalks by flashlight,
I imagine a hundred years of peaceful sleep,
a sunlight kiss to wake me.
There is still that dark window, though lilac fists
unclench hard buds and daffodils
blossom and bend against sharp-edged frost
brittle in the grass. That window still
reflects your face, though spring is nearly full,
and the sun slips north. Nothing lasts
like a mirror remembering--or a window glass
holding a night's darkness--although sun will
north and north to strike each earlier dawn
against the shutters, and migrant birds will follow
starpaths home again, and time creak on,
and leaves unfurl to lace the hanging willow
where it brushes the glass with branches green and long
in a pale reflection; although all light is gone.
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