Winter garden

Promised more snow, here’s a winter poem from three years ago:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Garden

 

It’s that slow time of year for the gardener.

Waking to hard frosts that transform

even the weeds to Jack Frost beauty,

I see that my tarragon has taken a beating,

but the rough, turned, new flower bed

is magically benefiting

from the ice that crowns each lump of soil.

And, just back from my mother’s funeral,

grief seizes my heart again in its fierce icy grip.

Like my garden in winter,

all I can do is wait it out

and hope that one day

the frost will have gone

and my heart will not have withered like the tarragon

but softened and fined down

like the good earth of my flower beds.

And maybe, come summer,

there will be roses.

 

Dorothy M. Stewart 11.1.09

 

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