The Woebegone Gardener

They are yet spectacularly glorious,
those indefatigable garden beauties,
the stalwarts of our garden beds, pots
and urns, blazing with their zest for life
undiminished, in all their gorgeous
colours, shades, delicate forms and
amazing variations - spring to fall.

They blaze with the confidence that
only garden favourites can presume
to assume. Reaching for a paler sun,
accepting cooler nights and torrents
of rain, nothing diminishes their
spirited showiness and lovely array.

And then, there am I, with spade and
snips, shocking them out of their
splendid placidity. Excavating the
gardens, the urns, leaving soil and
the ruination of beauty behind. For,
known to the gardener is the race
against the garden's nemesis, frost.

Hurriedly, tenderly, each glowing
plant lifted, sturdy stalks and heart
wrenchingly lovely flowers composted,
leaving small lumps of soil-covered
bulbs to lay away in a dry sheltered
haven, a precious cache of sleeping
glory in abundant abeyance.

All to be resurrected in good time
when the frozen wasteland of lovely
white crystals that signify winter and
that long period of imposed bleakness
has departed, when the bulbs can be
coaxed by spring's new sun, gentle
showers and aspiring vibrant life
to reappear and affirm re-birth.