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.
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.
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.
from my 2001 collection , Holding Glass
Copyright © Anne Langford
For a little Goodfellas and Dickens, read: Guarding the Nest
Lovely Anne. Now that we have decided to build again I am excited about the new house but sad about leaving my garden here and starting from scratch. We’re not the hire a professional landscape designer-types so there will be many dump trucks of soil, hauling of shrubs and planting of bulbs and years til we see it come together but well worth it.