To Garden

is to shrink back young again.

No one understands budding

until they’re old, until they’ve

disturbed ground with their hands

a second time and announced

which seedlings are their first

love this year, until they’ve

been born bold in earth while 

wearing scrapes and streaks 

that speak the truth about how 

one must dig in rows in order 

to become a grandchild of

joyful impermanence, inheriting

tomorrow’s green guesses.

What a gift it is to season along

toward another beginning.