The Old Gardener (Poetry)

In shirtsleeves now, he watches sun
undo the trees’ tight-knotted buds
across March sky a scrap of cloud
like God’s discarded litter scuds.

This day almost too bright for Spring
and eyes that water — squint across
the garden’s roused and bursting heart —
its quickened pulse beneath the moss

draws up the sap, cracks open earth —
tugging every seed awake —
no time to lose, they heed the call
and rally swift for Nature’s sake.

In regiments the young leaves blow —
aching in their greeness — raw
all unprepared but brave enough
to risk a late frost’s bitter war.

Everywhere, the troops prepare
while he, in shirtsleeves, gazes on —
inspects them with a knowing nod —
they’ll stand their ground when he is gone.