these snow-sumptuous and barren vegetable beds

remind me of the coming heat, the gritty sun beat

the fruit flower, green leaves, the canning steam

and i wonder how much we will need by summer’s end

of soil, seeds, sprouts, sweat

as spring gets on, i know it’s not just heat

but light and dark that conduct the spark of leaves

the sustained note of the open bud that murmurs the arrival

of long-light, the firefly-lit, slip of night

and i have these long days to make dirt -

to dig it from a decade of cut and heaped lawn clips

to toss it in the wheelbarrow

to cut in ripe kitchen compost, plus

two scoops of limestone and a pile of rotting leaves

to add a fork of mulch straw, a bucket of farm manure

and finally to slow to sacred-time to scatter a prayer

with a jelly-jar of Lynn Elfert’s ashes - as per

her posthumous request

now to feed pachamama - mother earth

to roll into some shade, to cool the stir and stir

to lean over the deep pan of the rusted garden cart

clenching a claw tool or pitchfork or favorite wooden stick,

mixing and mixing, even drips of salty sweat season

as i shovel, toss, chop this black-batter in- shovel, toss, chop

to build my garden beds, to plant my seeds, grow earth

where at rest, i listen and watch -

the rains release the dirt and split the seed to stem

the sun unfurl the leaves, insects consort the blooms

seeds don their fruit, earthworms eat dirt at harvest.