The Garden Spirit

I imagine the spirit of the garden
my constant garden companion of
this past season's shocked reaction
witnessing me destroy what has been
so carefully arranged, or is that just
the wind huffing with indignation?
Surely I imagined a voice dry with
ill humour at my labours asking me
'what have you now to say for yourself'?
In all likelihood it was she conspiring
with the unruly rose bush I've just 
trimmed, to send a thorn into my 
palm. A sunny day, windy and cool
finally I've decided it must be done
before frost sets in and the garden
agonizingly succumbs. And then
there are my loving ministrations
the intention not to destroy but to
prepare for winter's icy blasts. And
so on with my garden gloves, out
with the secateurs, the loppers, the
shears to cut back those luminaries
the peonies, hostas, hydrangeas so
they may take their repose and gather
strength to arise another spring. I snip
and hack and cut back here and there
the compost of once green and thriving
plants growing, and I ask myself why
am I enjoying this ruthless exercise?