Gardeners’ Labors Rewarded

(or, on our twenty-first anniversary,

I almost forgot to write you a poem)


We have entered the season of neglect,

the long quietness.  Last year, our twentieth,

was momentous, full of signs and portents.

This year I must remember to reflect,


steal time from children, work, and recent home,

from garden, new and relatively bare,

to celebrate our twenty-first.  Years of care

and work, dogged persistence, which some


counseled against, when we were new and raw.

Raw like this yard:  bulbs erupting one by one,

blind labor of last autumn, brave, but so alone.

The lush and rampant vision that I saw


is years from fully bearing.  But you and I,

grow rich with fruit, and harvest-time is nigh.




for Kevin, who makes me happy.