by Diane Elayne Dees
Every year, March makes a fool of me.
The mulch is cleared, and in the back yard bed,
green shoots appear from plants I feared were dead.
The roses, filled with buds, are fungus-free,
the air is fresh and cool, the soil fertile.
Narcissus splashes lemon on the ground,
the Turk’s cap spreads its small green hearts around,
and purple promise grows in the tired crape myrtle.
I know what to expect: Oppressive heat
will overcome both gardener and garden,
the soil with either turn to mud or harden;
when blackspot forms, the blossoms can’t compete.
I know this, but the changing of the season
unearths my need to dig, uproots my reason.
Diane Elayne Dees’s poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane publishes Women Who Serve
, a blog about women’s professional tennis. She lives in Louisiana.