I find them woven—
       ragged edged, broken
       twigs and branches dropped
       by wind-blown trees—
       between the flattened matted grasses
and withered slick brown fallen

leaves all winter pressed
by storms beneath repeating
ice, melt, more fallen snow. 

Now released by thaw and bitter rain,
I gather them; trundle cross
the yard, to the stone walled

fire pit, then pull cartloads
     of raked leaves and clippings,
     newly-sprouted weeds, uprooted—
     clover, dandelion, creeping
     campanula—to the uncultivated ground
beneath the power lines—my wild land

where we pile yard debris we can’t compost
and use for mulch, for fear
of spreading plant disease, insect

eggs, weed-seeds to the cared
for earth we name Holy, we name
Garden, we name our Paradise.
                                                  4/7/2014