I work in my garden daybreak to day’s end.
Despite the laborious hours I spend
hoeing and raking and pruning dead leaves
there’s always an overabundance of weeds.
Somedays I don’t mind though I stoop and I bend,
somedays it’s all I can do not to rend
my hair in frustration—why do I care?
This chore’s overwhelming, too oppressive to bear.
My futile day’s work I gladly would shirk—
then a daffodil nudges bright gold from the dirt.
A rosebud peeks shyly through calix of green,
light dances past lilacs in a glittering stream.
The fragrance of mint spices the air
and ribbons of wind twine through my hair.
The garden is labor but also delight.
It’s grueling//fulfilling, not unlike daily life.

Published in Poems