Time of the North Wind

That's me, over there, wearing
gardening gloves, you see. Shears
in one hand, secateurs the other
and balancing a small spade, working
against time and weather to spiff up
the garden. I'm not heartless, just
practical, spurning frost-mushed
annuals disposed of when icy-cold
and miserable winds set in for the
duration, preferring to deal with them
still fresh in their blooming colour
and exquisite form, though it pains
to reduce them to bulbs that will
over-winter in a sheltered place.

The gardener's attention turns to
cutting back the stubborn bloomers
in late fall, the leafy mounds and the
bright-berried shrubs, to leave all in
good order for the interim slumber
under the northern snow blanket. It
is a time of gentle sorrow, of mourning
passing seasons of growth, of promise,
beauty and bounty. Grim preparation
of the garden's rest one of those tasks
whose time has come with the north wind,
the sun's discretely-wan presence,
Earth tilting its axis, reminds us of the
pain and pleasure we all meet in life.