Coming to My Garden This Morning

Whatever lives, contends
— Tu Fu

I assume the lilies trembled
as the fawn lowered her head,
that the petals bled their nectar
onto her tongue
sometime while I slept.
I assume the daisies
in my garden have sense
enough to fear the bitterweed.
That they’ve come to recognize
the progress of those constricting rootlets
by the way the soil beneath them shivers.

But I plant every April;
turn topsoil, gouge out a place
for peonies, because I have come
to recognize the redemptive powers
of manure.

I’ve watched the wind consorts with children,
wrap each wish they blow into its hands
and sprinkle them amidst my tulips,
and though I know the earth will cling to the small
fragments of each taproot, that these weeds
will resurrect themselves,
I still shake the silt from every dandelion
I wrench from the ground.

— Bridget Gage-Dixon