Moving into the garden, we settle down
Between the birdbath and the hollyhocks
To wait for the beginning, leaving behind
The house we served for the best years of its life,
Making ourselves at home by the grass spider’s
Hollow throated nest in the ivy.

We have much to learn, such as what to do all day
In the rain that leans the roses against us
And how to follow all night the important paths
Of snails and shy leaf-rollers and lace bugs
And what to make of ourselves among them
At dawn when the cold light touches our fingers

That are no longer thinking of uprooting
Or pruning or transplanting but following
This fall the columbine and bleeding heart
Darkening together, the maidenhair
Closing away like all perennials,
Hardy or delicate, and turning under.

We lift handfuls of earth (is it motherly
Now? was it once? will it be again?)
And wait for the brambles to rise over the slope
Beside us like slow green breakers striking a seawall
To join with us, to mingle with what we love,
With what we've gathered here against the winter.