Sonnet VIII Garden Gnome

A sigh, a moan, a whimpered low groan;

As I, on creaking knees that sing off-key

Endure this stoop of wearied bones,

With plaited skin and wisps of hair turned reed.

I bend to earth, a gnarled and wizened tree

In prayerful posture, seeking things that grow,

Unlikely beast, a gnome I surely seem

Festooned in dusty gleam of ancient snow.

Unseen, unsung, I seek what lies below,

Unearthing bits of sun and waning moon.

I conjure wind and breath of long ago

And wreath myself in ancient scent of bloom. 

Released, reprieved from weak and fragile shell,

I relinquish earth to dance among the elves.