Love and Words


in the garden


It is spring.

I know this because

when I look

at the calendar,

it should be spring,

even though the air

remains cold.

I have waited all winter

for spring to come

and the calendar tells me

it is here.

So I put on my sweater

and I go out 

and kneel in the garden

between the furrows of earth

that smell like they should

be frozen,

but crumble to the touch.

I have waited all winter

to do this,

and I set to work

before the sun has sat long enough

to its benevolence.

I set to work in the false bright chill.

I dig.

I dig up all the flowers,

and vegetables

that grew here last spring,

when I can't remember where they were exactly,

I just

dig up the whole thing.


Rocks and roots and

Spiders and strange things and I don't know what

Scurry away from my blade,

and it feels like spring now,

at least in the heat

beneath my shirt

coming from my body.

I have spent months

with a chill I have not been able to warm.

Even now,

the heat becomes sweat that cools

and leaves me

icy under the sun.

I have waited all winter

to be able to do this.

To have this chance

to dig you

out of me.

All winter I have sat

inside and stared out the window

at this barren ground

and my mind has watched old movies

of you and I,

laughing in the sun,

gathering flowers,

planting seeds,

for a future

that was never to come.

All winter

I have watched my heart

play with things

that I knew were only dreams.


So I am here now,

kneeling in the dirt,

digging as if

I could dig you out of me.

You had no idea,

and I never had the chance to say,

that in our last conversation

I revealed

the deepest depth in me.

A seed we had tossed back and forth

Over the years,

but never spoke of


and some how,

never got around

to putting in the ground.

You had no idea,

that for weeks

I had sat

in the darkness

late at night

while you slept,

and imagined

what the future could be.

And I cried,

sitting there

alone in the dark,

because I never thought

such a future

would be,

and there I was,

thinking of sharing my dream.


I cried


it made me happy.

And when

you turned away

and opened the door,

winter came.

I didn't cry then.


I knew now what tears felt like

when they fall because

you are happy

And I didn't...

I couldn't...

give that up.

And a part of me knew,

or so I pretend,

that you hadn't heard,

so quiet was my voice

when speaking of something

that meant so much

to me.

So I have sat through the winter,

and looked at the garden we had grown

as it slept through the cold and storms,

biding its time till spring,

when it would awaken again.

And I wondered

if we were to be the same.

But here I am now,

rushing the sun,


rooting out 

hope from my soul's ground

that it was just the wrong time,

not this year.

Just the wrong season.

The wrong seed to plant in a drought.

In a time

when nothing good,

could grow.


decagon          poetry



c.2011 Cassandra TribeAll Rights Reserved