At the greenhouse, April's fierce wind stretches
plastic and wrenches the door out of square,
strewing empty black pots to who-knows-where,
tearing a row cover the pine tree catches.
I wedge the door shut. Warm, sacred silence
fills the low dome like incense. Muted light
eases my weariness. And though not quite
a chapel, I cannot tell the difference.
I rest my hands on soil, newly sifted,
loose, comforting. Worried whispers recede,
and the soil, crumbling softly, is a creed
of life, a magic mead I am gifted.
The fragile seedlings thus are holy fed,
While April tugs the plastic overhead.
April 16, 2018
copyright by the author