By Robert Nicholl

Looking at seeds upon seeds, many pages in a bright and glossy catalog, 
each one is a hope waiting to be given a chance. 
The earth is still frozen, unable to be worked, 
it waits impatiently for my spade and fork to turn it. 

Twenty feet by twenty feet is the whole world, 
it is the hope of the seeds, the wishes of the earth, 
and the time and effort waiting to burst from inside me. 

Each morning arrives with an icy mist upon the undisturbed ground. 
Each afternoon the sun tries to give its warmth to the stubborn dirt. 
Each day I wonder if the time is right. 

I cannot wait, but I must. The full garden is still only a thought

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About the Author:

Robert Nicholl is a homesteader living in the Finger Lakes region of New York. A fine arts painter, father, and amateur astronomer, he now cultivates both gardens and verses, finding poetry in the daily rhythms of tending the land. When not writing, he can be found in his apple orchard or turning compost with a notepad nearby.