Spring Garden


lines: Glenn Wigington

My cobbely plot of gray soil,

hand-turned with a pronged fork last October

waits for the earth’s March tilt

to bring the year’s first thunder.

I can smell the moisture

in the southwest wind

rising off the winter coast.

Dogwoods and maples

frozen and bunched

and waiting for warm mists

to flow up the Ouachita hogbacks,

cooling, coalescing, melting to droplets

a thousand to the thimbleful

that can rouse a turnip seed

from its slumber

or dissolve a mountain.

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