I have trouble convincing him
That this winter will let go of us, eventually.
But once it does, I fear that other waiting,
Black as still-born earth,
Will bring him low.
So I break my back with the rake
As soon as the ground is soft,
Even before our first real thunderstorm; to expose
The good intentions of the soil --
And I’m rewarded: not yet with answers
To our future on this earth;
But as I’m making this morning’s coffee, I glance
Out at the yard, and see the spade upstanding
In the turned dirt, half the garden done.
He has taken up the task of living still
Living in spite of what we can’t yet know
And for once, I’m proud of myself for trying.