Annual
April 9 2023
The garden returns
year after year
despite the death of winter.
I don't believe in an afterlife,
but this resurrection
tempts me to believe
that anything is possible
no matter how improbable it seems.
Before steam engines
mechanical clocks
and our headlong rush
into the future,
life unspooled
in reliable cycles
season after season.
Circles, steadily turning
like the earth around the sun
and the moon's revolving tides,
instead of jagged lines
ascending over time
until they stop.
So why not another go-round,
former lives
forgotten deaths?
Meanwhile
the snow recedes
grass greens
sturdy shoots poke up,
the air
has the earthy smell
of warm wet soil.
There is nothing miraculous
or supernatural in this,
no divinity
need intercede;
it's simply spring
as it's always sprung
from mother earth.
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