The Garden

Each spring I return to the soil.
Upon my knees
Hands into the earth.
The chill of winter is cast off but progress is little as i pull and pluck
Deadened, brown stalks from fertile beds.
I toil in my steadfast chore
My labor of love.
I cherish what will blossom from
The early season rains and warmth of summer. The bounty of our diligence. It must be nourished every day, fending off thistles and the ill gotten bindweed.
A brisk spring wind causes me to pause and to think of beauty past.
Forgive an old man his memories, some loves never die.