this afternoon i have been digging the japanese iris out of the vegetable garden
and stuffing the muddy rhizomes into grocery sacks in preparation
for the making of their new bed, which is currently a wilderness of tiger lilies.
i dug and chopped and raked and razed until my hands were on the point of blistering,
but only one wee corner is anything close to clear, and autumn is running toward advent.
i have felt a mild unease these last days, as though time had unwound to the brink of the new year
and i stood unready on the threshold.
i dream of snowdrops. i saw them in the wild once, away across the sea, and they always whisper
of that green and pleasant land i gave my heart to. travel is expensive, but snowdrop bulbs
are less than ten dollars a dozen. yet that would mean more planning, more weeding, more digging,
more fingernails stained with soil. meanwhile, the garden wall still needs mending.
darkness spread its blankets early this evening, warm breezes notwithstanding, forcing us
to lay down our tools. now our thoughts turn to dinner, and rest, and, eventually, beds of our own.
outside, the waxing moon waits patiently for its own time of fullness to come.