Petrichor

This time of year that room is not much visited. Its herringbone-patterned floor of worn bricks tilts here and there where rodents have made inroads. Homemade flats lie heaped in corners; stacks of cells lean sleepily together; insulation dangles; tools hang, festooned with webs and dust. Sometimes

when the door has been set ajar, a towhee wanders in, becomes confused at light from so many windows, beats itself silly, then rests, is eventually found and shown the way out. There's not much an old lady can do but wait, watching for earlier suns to rise, for petrichor,

for that sudden dislocation brought on by stepping into sunshine by a southern wall. Then, after one jonquil blooms by way of affirmation, she'll step in, rearrange things, dust her work bench and stool, bring seeds, open the soil bin, grab a pot, begin.