Friday, May 22, 2015

The Garden by Fanny Howe

The Garden

Black winter gardens
engraved at night
keep soft frost
on them to read the veins
of our inner illustrator’s
hand internally light
with infant etching.
Children book
on blizzard winds
and then the picture
is blown to yonder
and out of ink:
the black winter verses
are buds and sticks.

1 comment:

  1. This poem made me think of our writing as planting. The blank paper is soil to unearth, to turn, to grow new things.