December 1: Sunset 4:10 PM

It’s oddly warm. We strip the garden,
pull down three-foot-high blackened marigolds,
cleome, borage, yank out bamboo stakes.
The young arugula we planted weeks ago is
ready for harvest, the lily leaves slimy, brown.
Mole tunnels run under the sandy soil
in the mulch-covered plot by the fenced-in garden.
By three the sun is low, a glare in our faces.
We work against the clock, against the moment
when the sun will drop behind the trees, the sky
will be streaked with a narrow line of pink-orange.
The cottage is cold, the water shut off.
The detritus of last summer’s glorious blooms
lies in a pile. We weight the mess with fallen branches.
There’s no time to rest, put our feet up, imagine
what this will all look like, come spring.
Now everything must sleep the sleep of winter,
must die, and must— we hope— come back to life.
But first, the death of the garden, dormant, cold
shadowed by our uncertainty, our fears
that this short day is all we have, and own.

blueberry_bush_winter

2 thoughts on “December 1: Sunset 4:10 PM

  1. Long ago, I could not have known what a true gardener you would become–which is to say, poet! :-> G.

    On Thu, Dec 1, 2016 at 9:31 PM, Still In School wrote:

    > Lynne Spigelmire Viti posted: “December 1: Sunset 4:10 PM It’s oddly > warm. We strip the garden, pull down three-foot-high blackened marigolds, > cleome, borage, yank out bamboo stakes. The young arugula we planted weeks > ago is ready for harvest, the lily leaves slimy, brown. Mole tu” >

    Like

  2. Lovely and sad… I just realized why I started to Google floor lamps. One more in the corner would, I think, change bleak to cozy, as we accept, with regret, the indoor season. All your doing, I’m afraid….

    Like

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