In the off-season, a potting shed sits nearly abandoned: tilted brick floor, rodent tunnels, stacked seed trays, dangling insulation, dusty tools. A towhee sometimes wanders in and panics at the many windows until someone guides it out. The speaker, an old woman, has little to do but wait—for earlier suns, for the smell of rain on dry earth, for that jolt of stepping into warm sun along a south wall. The mood is quiet and dormant, colored by patience and gentle weariness. But there is also expectation. One jonquil blooming is enough of a sign. Then she will re-enter the shed, dust her bench, open the soil bin, and begin planting again. It’s a small poem about waiting through the last stretch of winter and trusting that work and growth will return.
Petrichor — Summary
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.