In the greenhouse things are happening—
I am all thumbs. They are splendid emeralds,
They work against the withering,
A world outside white with cold,
Frost manipulating all the leaves.
Mixed in air, bigger than a wheatfield,
A mossy fragrance. Things come alive
After centuries of drowsiness—
It is like opening a grave,
Exhuming the competent, the serious,
The fern uncurling its swan’s neck,
The cabbage opening like a rose,
Durable blossoms that will never break.
I am the sorcerer’s apprentice.
I am wide-eyed, I watch things wake
And stiffen under countless panes of glass
Where the old magician glides in a dirty smock,
Tuning the roses in, coaxing the lime trees,
Which wait like children in the morning dark,
Each with a name tag, twelve displaced persons
Whose nerves grow sensitive to the old magic—
Buds swaying out of ancient bones,
The brown bug waking in the table top.
I stretch my arms into a stone season.
