“The poetry does not matter
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.”
— T.S. Eliot, East Coker
the early and the late rains have fallen,
the warm days and the chill,
sunshine and shadow and storm.
and still the peas sleep under the soil,
no intimation of the rising yet to come.
if under-gardeners ought to be poets
then let them put their hands
upon their mouths
and wait.
Photo: Detail from The Crucifixion, 1450-1500, alabaster with pigment; property of The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art
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