A Gardener at Spring

This bed of flowers could
very well be my heart,
scattered with seedlings just
pushing their young green heads
into sunlight.

If only—I whisper, burying fingers
in the cool, dark soil—if only
the crocuses and lilies took
deep root in their welcome,
while the crabgrass knew to wither,

but in a spirit of timidity or
perhaps mischief, the seedlings
have learned for now to masquerade
in unity.

There are so many mysteries
in this fertile earth staining my knees:

Which must I tear out,
before they settle in and drain
my love's richness dry?

Where do I direct the rain,
to water those gentle flowers
still waiting to bloom?

Whose voice do I hear
softly over my shoulder when I am quiet,
whose trowel in my hands,
whose gloves working side by side
with mine?
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