In bleakest winter, drably
The latch of my garden gate
Rusts, its hinge stiffens badly
And creaks as if to break.
Hidden flowers peek
Out from time to time ;
From underground they seek
The awakening eyes of mine.
All across the World, gardens'
Restless engines trip the switch
Far too early to make amends
For frosted tips of growing's itch.
To wait in angst, as if a gate
Set for use, though groaning.
Grumbling is an Earth man's fate,
Too early this, too late's his moaning.
Tempered, is a gardener of merit
Honed in roots sprouting greens.
Knowledge trumps his lustful spirit
Driving him beyond his dreams.
Suddenly, snow withdraws its blanket,
Unlocks the frost of white winter's chill.
In apron, muddy, handles the bucket
Of garden tools, testing trimmings thrill.
Spring's equinox equals day with night,
Balancing an instant, then lightening up.
Moaning's gone, the garden gate's alright,
The stiffened hinge freed, tea fills the cup.
Ronald C. Downie