My garden waits in soggy splendor,
full of secret promise beneath the soil.
It is nothing if not patient,
waiting all these fallow months
for the earth’s return to warmth,
to be tickled again by my rake and hoe
massaging away the crusty surface
and caressing its timid offerings
as they peek their tiny green heads
into the wonder beyond the soil line
the day after a storm.
The coarse short hairs and sharp nails
of the oblivious puppy scratch small
children in their romping play.
The soft old dog snores
at the feet of the reader.
Crumbs of buttered toast shower grease spots
across the cluttered breakfast table.
An opened newsprint page
records a sprinkling of the faces
of newly-appointed angels.
© Candace Armstrong