Credo

I've come to believe in tools,have bought myself a new one—a standing bulb planter, tallgreen stem with padded handles—that punches four-inch holeseven in our hard clay ground.As if riding a pogo stick, I jumpon the wide, ridged foot pads.The tool collects perfect cylindershairy with grass.All summer I've longedfor daffodils, their yellow cupsblasting spring sun, but nowit's fall. Looking forward,my grandfather planted themin cooling soil by the hundredswith his crooked brown fingersand an oak-handled trowel.I drop a fat brown bulbin each cavity, cover it withthe soil plug so the hole'salmost invisible. Daffodilsare best, because rodentsand rabbits understandtheir poison. Poets love thembecause they multiply,seem to be immortal.