This is the blue hour.
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The quiet before the
dawn. No sound save
for coo of dove, a few
birds, perhaps, the early
crow. I sit beneath my
peeked, high roof, and
over-look our brief
garden from my wooded
perch where I work.
These are my tulips,
my Sunday daffodils.
My copper yellows,
my parrot reds with
their slippery yolk center,
over two hundred strong,
planted our first Autumn,
on hands on knees we dug
our parched, dry earth and
mixed it rich with fertility.
All that Autumn I tilled
the soil, removed the heavy
rocks one by one and pulled
the fierce taproot weeds, imported
richest loam and sweet manure,
smooth, stream pebbles to make
for us a path.
One by one I planted each thing.
The small, toy roses, soldiers,
they lined one by one and small.
Now house-tall, they climb the chimney
brick, thick and thorny. And what
of my honeysuckle, barely knee
high, now a lush carpet of trumpets,
peach-bright and honey-scented
they undulate above the fence
and wave their perfume to the wind.
My morning East, my seacoast North.
My foreign South, my sunset West.
Each corner of my property has its
decoration and sustenance. Our ivy
North, lined with salt-roses, my herb-
patch East, our earth-rich tomatoes
ringed with honeysuckle, wild jasmine.
My rose-rich South so fragrant, warm.
My winded West, so white with rhododendron,
and everywhere the bulbs, the annuals,
perennials I so delicately planted.
This is my garden. This is my small square
of land, worked with hand til rough and sore.
Now see how they come! Those docile,
summer bees, my Monarchs and my starlings.
This is where I see the moonflower open
to the night.
This is my land, my plan,
my stick in hand, my boots that squelch
in mud. Made of nothing; see how rich!