Life’s almosts —
seismic shifts —
herald of looming
inscrutable rifts,
tearing the fabric
of the everyday,
stripping the known
and the snug away,
emerging newness
from this to that,
change aborning,
verdant fiat.
From depth of cyclic
mystery
its swelling vow:
What wasn’t will be.
The seed speaks
in snowy mound
pledge and mandate:
life is round.
In revolution
measured, steady,
resurrection
at the ready,
turning, turning,
seed to seed,
to shade, to soothe,
to thrill, to feed.
In cycles spoked
by dark and light,
gardener’s sure
gemütlichkeit.
You may recall, dear reader, the tiny green shoots I spotted in the gravel — in the gravel! — my first summer here. Snapdragons? I so carefully dug them up and transplanted them. And now their descendants bloom like a petticoat ruffle, smugly cautioning me never ever to underestimate life.
Yesterday it happened
though I was adamantly opposed;
inevitability
didn’t make me more composed.
I argued, put my foot down,
but the truth was right out there:
my granddaughter was taller
by a hundredth of a hair.
Oddments 