I've been a bit busy lately, so sorry for not posting for so long.


Operation February


I almost missed the season's call to arms,
deafened by duty, making future plans,
I did not hear the birds that spurned my seed
to raise their young on less neglected land.

Now needled by the seriousness of dawn
I'm driven out to scan my cankered bed,
choked by a dying back of tangled weeds,
their lobules milked, no telling where they've spread.

I track the bindweed's blind lymphatic roots,
the cancer that my ruthless fork reveals,
then scar the soil with compost, raked well in.
Dug deep enough each year a garden heals.

This time I plant perennials, the kind
that flower despite these cold foreshortened days.
Though shadowed by the hazel, from the vale
sweet sorrow-scented lilies will amaze.

I pray that when the darkest weeks are done
next year my son will find these cyclamen
and by the twisted tree I'll hold his hand
to hear him say 'My mother planted them.'

Terri )O(