On the Lothlorien Poetry Journal:

Bedding

It is long past time

to put my garden to bed.

Even plants that have

survived two hard frosts

look like patients 

on life support. 

Each year in the first flush

of spring—when I’m digging

in the just thawed earth

wearing a ski coat

and last year’s gloves,

I promise myself

that I will put this garden

to bed properly —

trimming here and there

and yanking dead stuff 

out by their roots

in the dimming daylight

of an icy November.

I never do.

It’s hard to believe

that there is just

one of me,

springing from bed

early each April morning

to plant little green nubs

in the clay soil

with so much

unsupported optimism.

To someone

who can hardly

look out the window

at the limp sadsacks

of the garden remains.

Ah, only six months

till spring.