MY FATHER'S GARDEN IN VERMONT

When the spring sun's fingers lift white gauze From ancient sores, again time's ooze Weeps from granite hills. My father Limps out alone to meet the mire.

He picks a patch and jams his seed With stubborn thumbs into the mud. Sighing wordless prayers, he turns Them deep into the sourness.

Kneeling down each day he kneads And conjures muck to squeeze one green end Of life to him - one shoot to burst Into his heart through winter's cyst.

At last green lions spring in squadrons From the earth! In rows, his closest sons Parade between his hands and knees And spin him up among the wrens.