First Gardening Day of 2014.
Soil turned, rich dark.
Womb for seeds, tiny white roots.
Hands chilled as mud sticks.
Springs first sparse warmth
caresses my neck. Contrasts blossom;
Heat and cold, dark earth, pale skin.
I make holes, , pat down, smooth.
Tuck in delicate tendrils.
Smell earth, warm wood,
fabric conditioner ghosts from my clothes.
Neighbour-noise rises staccato
from other gardens. We are drawn.
All of one mind. Outdoors.
Into the air, under the sun.
Pulled by a new season's subtle force.
Some to smoke, others to talk. I to garden.
Transfixed by the papery pettalled
layers of Ranunculus.
A constellation in a handful of seeds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem