Somehow my thumb is not green
Anymore, or hasn’t been
For the past four years of pulling green
From the bank and students’ minds.

My house plants died.
My garden is awry
With dried up useless weeds.

But the clover I was given
Ten years ago has survived
And survived and survived.

What spark in those blind
Tuberous roots shines?

Is it my hope?
Is it my refusal to grieve?
Is it God?

No matter how limp, shriveled,
Brown, barren, or how deep
My disappointed sigh,
All it wants, like me, is gentle
Water, living soil, light.

Up come the tender leaves
That fold up at night!
Up come the fingered cups
Reaching, nodding, sun white!

How many dozens of springs
Has it given me in ten years of life?
Why wait on the springtime sun
When the sun is my own sight?


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