Never Mind What You See

It is coming. Never mind the bare trees.
Look closely and there are tiny buds on the limbs.
Never mind the left over snow. Much has melted already.
The creeks overflow with the melt off.
It is cold in the morning. But by afternoon there is sun,
enough you can sit in it and read.

It is the season of knowing. Not quite winter.
Not quite spring, but knowing it is close.
Not feeling it, but knowing it is there.
It is coming. Something in your heart
has turned a corner that is not felt,
but you recognize it from other seasons
of broken hearts.

Your garden needs tending.
You have neglected it for a time,
and even if it does not show
you know how neglected it has become,
You prefer a slightly wild garden,
that sense of overflowing and almost,
but not quite, under control.
You prefer your grass long, not quite to seed,
but even that kind of wildness
in gardens and love, requires some work,
some inspiration,
but most of all, some belief in the spring
we cannot see.

About this poem.

About gardens. About depression. About re-emergence. About the positive side of aging. About, well, almost everything.

The Photograph was taken near some wetlands in nearby Hebron, NY. In April.

Tom