The world needs poets to create gardens
from stinking compost and the bitter seeds
of this season’s harvest, to dig with our bare
hands into the moldy refuse, loosen air
into the soil, thumb seeds and bulbs
in orderly tracks, cover gently and soak
until the dirt compacts again.
Months after a new President’s sworn in,
snow recedes into grey slush.
Then the poets’ work emerges
in vibrant green nubs and shoots.
Out of the softening earth grow white
snow drops and fragrant hyacinths, blue
crocus, crested iris and red tulips. Dogwood
and cherry trees burst brilliant overhead.
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