planter

The humid air brings me down
to the soil over seeds,
six mounds across the garden,
shaped with infant hands,
the dirt still dark
from the waking
of its slumber.

With a spade
dug deep into the earth,
lines of ants
are led to lions' lairs,
marching a futile dirge,
feeding worlds larger than theirs.

A gust from above scatters them,
and some cling to me,
helpless.

As weeks fertilize
the fruits of labor,
the earth is worked,
and I will feel
the sweet nectar of harvest
as it falls from my lips
and travels down my neck.

And as the buzzard overhead watches,
the husk of the season
is laid bare,
its treasure full,
its spoil
reaped.