Every spring, spades turn warming soil
Over and mound it up in rows.
The spaced seeds germinate while
The furious sun grows old.
The slow worms under the garden
Squirm through their loose knots and tangles,
Keep the soil aerated, healthy,
While we lie coiled around our thoughts.
We hiss and we bite in the mornings,
Or half-choke on words in our throats
And knock on wood against moments
When our strangling wants might get loose.
We plant our dead in cold coffins
In graveyards’ euclidean rows;
As if our once-parellel lives
Only end, never drift apart.
The carrots, the uncut rhubarb,
The turnip and peas go to seed;
The crows, and the long-squabbling gulls,
The skunks and raccoons eat their fill.