Spring returns as fresh as grief,
Leaf-covered iron arches lay askew
all winter on random clods of earth.
Weeds flourish where a brick path lay.
A swath of wild phlox hides some scars.
Some wounds might heal beneath
This periwinkle bandage over weeds
Where garden beds and paths once
Kept life within careful, tended borders.
I mourn my borders,
Yet rejoice at gifts
Remembering last week’s lavish boon—wild violets,
Purple, white, bicolor, swarming in redemption.
An old, sparse-blossomed dogwood reminds me
Of lush springs when tides of tended blooms crashed
Against my tidy shores,
And tumbled me in their swells
Until I lay exhausted, bereft of breath, after their ebb.
Today the gardener mends her spirit
Grabs her trowel and prays
On knees bent first in supplication,
Then in praise.
The wizened azalea blooms, cerise as always.