Gardener's World

You think, down on my knees,
I grub for weeds
digging my nails in cold November dirt?
Not so. I breathe
the honeysuckled air
that bats delight in.

I cut to the third bud
bewintered apple boughs?
You're wrong. My head is wreathed
in Van Gogh clouds
of scented pink.

Tugging at what you see
as rotting stalks of some
anonymous herb,
I'm watching bees, trying for size
next summers' foxgloves.

And these
brown paper bodies that I bury
in October graves
are yellow tulips
opening mascara'd eyes
in April sunshine.