The Sun Comes Up

Endlessly hoeing
The drab rows
Of my garden,
I suddenly
Turn up
The Sun!

It was buried
There all along.
Its light breaks out.
I'm blinded!

I can't remember
Which was ground,
Which was sky,
What was garden

And where he
Ended and began,
That poor fellow
With the hoe!

by Max Reif

Comments (2)

What's with the low score here? Thoroughly enjoyed reading this one, Max. Perhaps because I am an ardent gardener? Am able to lose myself for hours in the preparation and maintenance of my 'self-therapeutic haven.' It's mid-February and eyes have already looked upon seed catalogues, and thoughts have turned to indoor seed propogation techniques. At any rate, loved the image of unearthing the Sun. A well-grounded piece, if you will? It has been my finding that many poets are also gardeners as well. Maybe it's the connection with Nature aspect? Digging it, Greg
Excellent! Max it's the truth.In the bright light you become blind, in the darkness you see more things?