The breath of the garden
has been steeped all night in wood smoke.
That'll be my morning tea.
Was I standing long enough
to collect dew? Because water fell from my
fingers, it's pent up things.
This Spring ground is still wet.
With not enough sunshine in the shadows
things don't dry till summer,
But my garden drinks what I drop
until my mind is clear of thoughts soaked
in that dry Winter.
— Dorothy Myers