Now we’re digging holes.

Digging out forty rose trees

from winter’s safe harbor home pit of dirt.

The previous year someone stole six.

Just came by and dug them out one night.

So that when we returned next morning

we were greeted by holes.

Bastards!

Now we’re digging holes.

Maybe one hundred so far.

In beds

along borders throughout the garden.

Holes for filling with new roses

not from taking old roses.

Besides these holes

return flowers and weeds

bees and birds

toads, closed roads, buds on trees

and people in masks

all out

with their needs.

We are all still in this collective shock

of our world in pause around us.

As we come outside

to a world around us that thrives

and returns without us.

Strong and delicate.

Those anemic points see light again

and say

Hey, we made it.

Here we are.

Time to get ready.