This is the blue hour.

The quiet before the

dawn. No sound save

for coo of dove, a few

birds, perhaps, the early

crow. I sit beneath my

peeked, high roof, and

over-look our brief

garden from my wooded

perch where I work.

These are my tulips,

my Sunday daffodils.

My copper yellows,

my parrot reds with

their slippery yolk center,

over two hundred strong,

planted our first Autumn,

on hands on knees we dug

our parched, dry earth and

mixed it rich with fertility.

All that Autumn I tilled

the soil, removed the heavy

rocks one by one and pulled

the fierce taproot weeds, imported

richest loam and sweet manure,

smooth, stream pebbles to make

for us a path.

One by one I planted each thing.

The small, toy roses, soldiers,

they lined one by one and small.

Now house-tall, they climb the chimney

brick, thick and thorny. And what

of my honeysuckle, barely knee

high, now a lush carpet of trumpets,

peach-bright and honey-scented

they undulate above the fence

and wave their perfume to the wind.

My morning East, my seacoast North.

My foreign South, my sunset West.

Each corner of my property has its

decoration and sustenance. Our ivy

North, lined with salt-roses, my herb-

patch East, our earth-rich tomatoes

ringed with honeysuckle, wild jasmine.

My rose-rich South so fragrant, warm.

My winded West, so white with rhododendron,

and everywhere the bulbs, the annuals,

perennials I so delicately planted.

This is my garden. This is my small square

of land, worked with hand til rough and sore.

Now see how they come! Those docile,

summer bees, my Monarchs and my starlings.

This is where I see the moonflower open

to the night. This is my land, my plan,

my stick in hand, my boots that squelch

in mud. Made of nothing; see how rich!