The Good Seasons

These are your rewards for
not giving into
impatience
hatred
and despair:

the good seasons. One in which
to make reparations
preparations
and repair. That old red-handled
hammer of which we spoke
now firmly in your fist
you won't mind
how your hand
and your arm ache
from striking blow after
blow after blow
you will just keep on standing
in front of the thing you made
with satisfaction
and great pleasure
and well-being
so simple
in your moment.

Another in which
to root
and to bloom. No one can
predict or say
how large
or which color
or whether you will be the
hedgerow, and border plantings
or the morning glories
climbing up
and running riot
and summoning hummingbirds
to drink, and to worship. You won't
care, and it won't matter. That
will be the whole point.

And another
to speak silent prayers
on your lips
and touch your fingertips
to the very tops
of tall grasses
and flowers
and other people's fingertips
that you love
and to be stock-still in fogged and misty mornings
waiting for the sun
and then the excited dance
and the burning off
and the glory
of a blue sky day
and you will cry then
overwhelmed with
the thickness
and density
of pure abundance
face raised
eyes closed
seeing the honeycombed
reds and oranges and
with the joy
of a sinking sun
and the smells of wet leaves
and woodsmoke

one last rose
so pink
or white
so late
on the vine

and of having had
the good seasons

all of this
for you
poised
and yet to come.