Monday, April 16, 2018

At the Greenhouse

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.

Bayboro, NC
April 16, 2018
copyright by the author


  1. Very good. It captures the essence of your greenhouse life. :)

  2. Keep on writing, great job!

  3. Did you write this?? It's beautiful, and describes how I feel, even in my teeny tiny greenhouse.

  4. 'Warm, sacred silence...'
    This whole piece is so very beautiful. I love it. Makes my soul happy.


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