Tombs and Tulips

Overnight a foot of snow covers daffodil shoots and snowdrops. Crocus return their purple hearts back to the tombs and tulips take one last nap. It's not a surprise to have snowfall so close to spring but it is still an affront. Emily Dickinson says that March is the month of expectation, which of course is entirely true. Accordingly, a remembrance of wild blue skies enters dreams and the new durability of dawn melts winter set in the heart. I always thaw too soon.

In a kiss of breeze, snow clumps fall from branches like sorrow or too many wishes. The dreaming hour continues a little longer.

Rain barrels – spigots – seed starters.

Cool dew on bare feet.

Trellis building and compost turning.

Campfires, cannabis and a crown of fireflies.

We shovel snow instead of dirt but the seasons are in charge. It was never me. You know this and yet you played along. The Hairy woodpecker drills his beak into the old maple like a rail road spike and the nuthatch inverts his dance all the way down the timbered spine. Morning yet meets me bright and night still severs all past things from staying too long. A new day always comes and this one begins with again with a pure, white slate. I almost said “we begin again” but that isn't true – we are neither “we” nor “pure white.” Thank God the guilty find their way home too.