House robbed, basement drains seeping sewage, and I’ve ducked outside to peer at the buds.

Can’t help it, it’s the default setting on this whacky ’64 model.

 Spring is the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky (e.e cummings), love hot and bothered in the back seat, black under your fingernails.

dirt

A dump truck leaves a mound of earth on my driveway.

 It sprawls there in misshapen form.

The girls abandon the bubbles and bound downstairs.

Bare and dripping on the steps, they stare,

pink bums longing to leap in the dirt

to rid themselves of clean.

Wheelbarrows later,

virgin soil cuts a black ribbon through the yard.

Moist from the dusk rain, it is an expectant bed

 beckoning my toes in.

 Soon too, my hands, arms,

 body burrowing down, down.

I am a root taking hold,

 my fetal blooms encased.

 Warm, ready, I’m a lover in wait.

 Sun rays ripple through the sod.

Send my colours exploding,

wild and bright against the jet ground.

Through the window,

my breath forms a steam cloud.

A garden.

Finally.

 from my 2001 collection , Holding Glass

Copyright © Anne Langford

 For a little Goodfellas and Dickens, read: Guarding the Nest