March 2: Tired of Snow, Green, "The Art of Growth"

Okay, I'm a little tired of snow.  Woke up to a couple of new inches of white on the ground this morning. 

I need to think of spring.  Melt.  Thaw.  Green.  Sun.  Warmth.   A time when I was watching my daughter sprout like a dandelion in my house.  It seemed every morning she was taller, faster, smarter.

Saint Marty misses those times of bloom.

The Art of Growth

by:  Martin Achatz

A coworker carries her granddaughter
around the office, showing off
her dark curls and serious eyes.
I am amazed how much the child
has grown, size her up
like a blue-ribbon squash.
The last time I saw her,
she fit into the fold of my arm,
a mitten of sleep.  Now,
in this thick June, she is
all height and weight, a moving
field of sprout and fruit.

My coworker knows the art of growth,
the moisture and heat it needs,
the cycles of sowing and reaping.
With her daughter, she kneads manure
into black earth, thick with cow smell,
watches her granddaughter plow
dirt with her fingers.
I wonder if she is ever astonished
by the size of her roses,
the yellows of her daylilies.
I wonder if she ever listens
to her garden at night,
the way I listen to my daughter
stretch and grow in the dark.