End of Season

Twice a year I do this
hack savagely at the earth
because I love it.

Burying treasure or plotting an elaborate
easter treasure hunt for rodents --
I never know for months.

Disturbing gentle blind beings
who live whole lives
in the dark wet --

Carelessly agitating the tiny
scaled and feathered --

Digging, digging,
dibble in the dirt,
I poke, I plop, I cover
and move on.

As I pull myself
from my arthritic crouch
I notice I have been attacked.

Hordes of seeds
from frost-killed flower heads
have flung themselves
into the fabric of my shirt --
tiny, wedge-shaped, faceless, hornéd beasts,
an army with the prehistoric anger of all pointy things --
they prickle only slightly
but hold the fibers with an intensity like devotion
or fanaticism.

Are they angry with me for the winter?
Do they know that I am
their grandmothers' midwife?
Do they seek protection from the birds?
Or am I just a massive bus
they hope will carry them to their future?

Their future begins at my doorstep.
For better or worse, I pluck them away
and scatter them in the uncultivated frontier
miles from their roots.

I read on an embroidered pillow
that a gardener is someone
who believes in the future.

For me, it's more like prayer.
I don't believe,
but still, I hope.

Acting on hope is not such a bad thing.

by Sara, copyright 2001, all rights reserved