Snowed Under

Same time last year
you were sprouting seeds.
This year, covered by
thick blue snow,
your everyday is a mystery

to infertile minds
planning the next onslaught
by rogue hoes, neglecting
hyped hope -- we are
weaklings; we are warriors.


     [from a long poem, "Conversations with a Garden" by the blogger;
      acknowledgment:  Joel 3:10]



"I'm not sure what you're trying to say," says Virginia, "but I think you're comparing your garden last year and this year with the past year in Washington."


"Spot on," I say.


"And I think," says Virginia, "we seem to be farther than ever from beating swords into plowshares."