“Gardening is an instrument of grace.” — May Sarton

I seek sunlight, haul poetry into spring garden,

settle among bearded iris, cascading alyssum,

scribble in my journal and read.

Swallows discover a white hair strand,

carry orphan ringlet under roof eave,

weave a piece of me into their nest.

A boorish jay perches on power line,

bobs and croaks, showing off for his mate.

I dead-head spent geraniums, pluck dandelions.

All in all, it’s a productive afternoon: solar vitamin D,

rough draft of new verse, only one broken fingernail,

soul soothed by industry, smudge of dirt on my face.