The Poet Pauses to Write a Poem in the Middle of Yardwork

Gardening, like worry or a doubter's hopes of Heaven,

Never ends.  As Frost said, "way leads onto way,"

And just as you think the last garlic mustard has been yanked

You uncover another innocent, white-headed blight.

Today, I'm planting a tree, which, no matter how I orient

It, wants to lean;  it has tendencies and doubts itself,

Maybe mulling over whether I can dig the hole with my

Good intentions, but weak spade.  And yet, in this rain,

And warnings of worse, the old lilac has put out another

Branch of delight-I shower its blessings on me as I reach

And am of two minds about whether to clip a grape-shaped

Cluster or let it stand to comfort others-an elegiac flower,

Dank, deeply-burdened scent puts me in mind of loss, yet

Hope.  Sweet Emily Dickinson understood this paradox-

That smack in the middle of Life comes the blackbird

To the feeder where the finches and chickadees have

Been flirting-scaring off thoughts of Eternity and 

Introducing Mr. Death-(not that the blackbird has the

Blame-we humans are a symbolizing lot) and sometimes,

As the earthworm cut just right by the spade can duplicate

Itself-the lovers stroll off together, garlanded by weeds,

To a sweet nest hidden beneath the sterile-seeming arbor vitae.

Gay Davidson Zielske