Blanket of snow thrown off – get it off me!
The garden’s waking up
Still drunk and put to bed wet.
Matted grass and pools of ice collage
A colorless straw lawn. Shrub limbs akimbo
Sport last fall’s dead leaves
Dangling like almost-severed fingers
Wiggling “no no no” in the breeze.
What smashed the terra cotta pot?
Has old man winter grown young again,
Rolled his up his t-shirt sleeves
To show off his new tattoo
And beat the garden senseless?
Some redneck’s battered her for sure.
Where there’s a crocus there’s a broken rain gauge.
Where there’s a daffodil there’s death.
Dead leaves, dead branches, dead seed-heads,
Dead piles of who knows what this stuff is.
Winter left litter all over the place
Like a renter bolting without notice,
Like an apartment on an episode of Cops.
March won’t go out like a lamb,
He’s going out like a thug and leaving his trash.
The garden’s abused
And shows few signs she’ll make a recovery.
How can anything suffer such shame
And still grow a future?
A tiny gray bird perches in the barren plum tree,
Flies down and pecks in the mulch,
Then sits atop a coneflower
Saying the holy word
“Yes” as the sun drags itself up, up, up.