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

Website Designed and Maintained by Web Design Relief