They dibble the turf
with fork and trowel
eagerly, eagerly
going to it,
each whiskery bulb
unclutched and buried
as we their assistants
kneel beside them.
Ours is the knowledge,
the choice of season,
the nurturing landfill,
the bedding down,
but theirs the trust
in a world new-minted,
like prospectors
for the future’s gold.
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