As Gerard gestures toward the lean-light sheen
Of hawk in dew-dropped meadow, his long-flung
Dirt piles resound abundance. Fecund-green
Young buds burgeon fresh from yon dung once sprung.
Grime-wet slick sleeves, kneeled deep in work-made mud
With trousers dappled brown by wet cut ground.
A sudden storm-surge wrestles roots to flood
From fragile loam to swirling purling drowned.
These spring storms and winged forms rolling remind
This grieving gardener of weakened shoots
Remained too shallow, roots never entwined
In solid soil, whose grip spring rain dilutes.
Though the garden’s washed out in a torrent
Of rain, it is himself his tears lament.