Those days when you were putting your garden to rest
for the winter, when you were digging into the ground
and turning it over, when your hands were stressed
and raw from the heft of the shovel, perhaps you found
your mind was also doing some digging into
the soil that shaped you, unearthing the sour
roots of pain, exhuming the gritty slew
of decay that had its ineluctable hour.
Air and light will make themselves your pardoner.
The excavations of this husbandry search
to make all things healthy. My sweet gardener,
use me, if you wish, like some comforting mulch,
like some healing compost, reanimating
the crops and blooms of your approaching spring.