My vision’s full of holes–the empty cup
of earth beside the river where the boulder lay,
thin footprints in mud, the shoulder of ice
on the lawn with caves of air. I ache
for warmth, shuffle into soft bits
of forgetfulness. On a hook in the entry,
his worn brown sweatshirt cradles the hoe.
I slip it on, step into fertile air, make a row.
I kneel in dirt, dropping small seeds.
Another spring. Tongues of snow slip
back into the woods. The earth
turns up rocks, leaves, a rusty worm,
the mole’s small bones. The gravel rakes
hard, scratches into piles. Raw green leaves
of skunk cabbage push up, turning
for a bit of sun. The dog paws over
the soil, eager for what’s below —
pine cone, severed root, shriveled fern.
My knees leave twin hollows. The earth packs
down beneath my palm, moist, expectant.
Blast Furnace, Vol. 5, Issue 2