When spring in leaf makes
good its pledge
that’s when my rusty spade
will bite.
Across the lawn I’ll
mark an edge,
my unmade bed to plant
with light.
And where my trusty spade
does bite
the grass is gone, left
naked earth,
an unmade bed to plant
with light.
Within its bounds no knotted
turf:
the grass is gone, left
naked earth.
Since winter drear at
last will break,
within its bounds the
knotted turf
my blade will cut and
lift and shake.
When winter drear at
last does break,
across the lawn I mark my
edge
where blade shall cut
and lift and shake,
for spring in leaf makes
good that pledge.
xi.2014
/ x.2015
