The frozen earth slumbers
under blankets of leaves
and a coverlet of snow,
not yet aware of the young sun’s prying gaze.
The poles that supported bean vines last July,
stand warped and bowed, like ancient teepee
watchtowers, barren, shivering in the breeze.
Somewhere in that rumpled,
fenced in garden bed, lies evidence of last year’s labors,
Rows of wilted stems and leaves testify
“parsnips wait luscious here below.”
The gardener stands spade in hand,
evaluating, calculating, not in numbers but in seeds
and seedlings and hills and rows,
Anxious for the day when the earth will again be pliable
and welcome the tickle of the rake and hoe.
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