Sowing Seeds

With a murmur, a soft rumbling
behind the tonsils,
I could convey my world to you.
If you were to chance a flailing grasp.
at those muted tones,
we could plant flowers again in spring.
We could grub down in the dirt,
soil ground into the quick of our nails,
pulling up the early weeds
and corpses of the renegade perennials.
I could give you a nudge,
present you with a particularly
haggard specimen and say,
"Ah! this was you last fall--
stiff and bristling.
But you, too, yielded to me."
You would feign offense and pelt me
with dirt until I cried.
"Yield!  I yield!"
and made you subject to muddy kisses.
Or perhaps this moment will pass, ungrasped,
making grace impossible,
and leaving the spring gardens to themselves.
Surely not to you or I.
Surely not to us.
For how could we tend seeds and bulbs,
delicately hung in balance?

Sara Cox's Questions:

I am unsure of how fluidly this poem reads.  I would like to know if it seems clumsy and where the problem areas are.