Stone day

How bitter the day -
how hard and white the hail -
garden has got away,
escaped from me:  the beds
are become lawns.  I ripped

and tore the sods loose,
destruction inevitable, perhaps
plants won't survive the cull.
How chill the wind
on my neck, wrists sore,
hands numb.

Not a gentle thing
being out in nature
as it tries to reclaim
all the ground from you.

He went home and silence
fell.  I don't mind the day,
glad for the blessing
of my breath - I planted
periwinkle:  purple and white
in stony ground.

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