The rain has stopped
but the quiet drip drip
tells me all I need to know of how
the new plants–the strawberries, cabbages and flowers
have been gently soaked into new-turned earth
safe beneath surrounding rotting hay mulch.
No birds sing at this hour, no coyote moans, only the moon
waning from its fullness of two nights past
sheds a pale gray light not even strong enough to reflect
on diamonds dripping
leaf to earth, leaf to earth.
My slippered and nightgowned self
stands in the shadow of the porch, is grateful
for this gift of wakefulness
at 3 a.m.