When I revisit the poems I wrote here
under all these layers of since,
I delve drifiting sands, find amphorae
of seeds: they plant themselves
and bloom afresh: orchids, mushrooms,
fresh spring boughs of pussy willows,
carrots, plums, potatoes, sweet basil.
What grows in this garden of posts
can live itself, a window into the living past;
and from each of these as I pass I hear
voices, see figures washing like waves
onto a distant beach. We are all so young
there, so involved in everything but since,
and is that stew I smell? And Christmas pudding?
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