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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

Nibbling seeds

Saying the holy word

“Yes” as the sun drags itself up, up, up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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