Jane Woodman
1 min readFeb 6, 2020
Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

As long ago I bore fruit for you,
Still what you plant in me grows:
From your touch beauties spring,
Racing to sing the heat of your heart.

I lie fallow like ground under snow,
Waiting for your hand to turn me,
Gathering power to meet your own,
Listening for the Gardener’s tread.

Come to me with the creeping spring!
Dig your richness into me,
Seed me with your heat.
Lover, I wait with the earth.

Jane Woodman

too soon old, too late smart