Works and Days (For Hesiod)

I am a terrible gardener, and yet
I know what constitutes the seed of Love
I know what conditions it needs to grow--Love
is a shade plant in loose soil,
a succulent with night-grown flowers
and a vast network of stunted roots like a lattice
or a fisherman's net for stones.
I know that I must plant love
in the southwestern corner of my garden,
water it sparingly at the start, and always
turn my face away while doing so,
gluing my eyes to the rising moon.

I have read Works and Days.
I know the rules must be kept
if one wishes to appease the gods.
I know that I must rely on the divine hand
in the tending of my crops.

So I must never spit in the Garden
and ever reap only half of what I've grown
in a blindfold
with a scythe. It can't be known I sow to glean.

And last, to glut the seed of Love
I starve myself;
I live on chaff
for the first three years of winter
and content myself with weeds the rest.

Yet Love is older than Hesiod
and to live
requires an even stranger
arcanum of tasks:

To yield desire one must work
while knowing
that Love, once harvested, cannot last.