When you dig up a tree,
keep some soil around the roots,
webby strands
wrap the taproot, the calm anchor, reach
horizontal through duff and toad dung,
damp mould. Things move so
discreetly sometimes,
I didn't even notice.
A tiger's ear flares in shade,
was that the water molecule's
elemental split? The sleight of hand
described on page twenty? No, not exactly,
you prop a shingle barrier up
to shelter a wind-torn cabbage sprout.
Strawberries edge the bed, an upside down
pot keeps rain from the post hole,
another adage proved: plant
at the new moon,
a stitch in time saves nine,
if you must leave, don't
go bare, take some dirt with you.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186, no. 3, June 2005. Used with permission.