Posted on April 18th, 2013
Already the sun has lapped the snowdrifts
clean from the yard. Now it comes begging
at the kitchen window, as though each pane
were a sheet of ice or the glaze on a cake
to celebrate the end of something. Winter,
maybe. But the soil rests untilled,
the seeds unplanted. I shield my eyes
from the glare. It asks too much too soon:
we are creatures of occasional darkness
still in the lull of frosts. We hunger,
but not for green. The cellar offers
last year’s roots and the ghosts of leeks
where one or two of Hades’ rivers
cut through on their run to irrigate
the cool, infertile bedrock. A month or two
will split the garden, bounty or weeds.
Either will feast us, as the sun feasts us,
as I shy from the dog-end of an eggplant
carelessly roasted a night or two ago.
We feed ourselves with things that creep
from darkness, springing, and try to learn
the savor of mud, analects of the sun,
and transformations of a year’s first fire.