That Time

That time when there is yet nothing, Her skills being at rest, synchronized And sympathetic with soil's sleep -- Timid buds of lilac or jonquil still Tucked within themselves -- she wonders If she's even a subsistence woman, is Mistaken in that as so much else, as when Even deep snow cannot efface what Winter erases when it is nearest spring.

Her hands stretch to packaged seeds; Enter into bargains with their quietude. Now? Now? Now? Now? she asks them, Though she knows they will not move. Here by a cold window she spreads Envelopes on her table: peas, beets. Radishes will be first, nearest the house. Even now she smells them, lifted, bitten.

Is there nothing that can be done? She asks for the hundredth time. You'd think the mud would dry a little, Evenings come later, mornings earlier, The birds nest and sing, daisies open!

No. Tools rest in their ranks, sharpened, Oiled. Clouds pass, low, lightless, sulking. The arbor's done, fences, orchard, Heaps heaped. All she needs today Is that this blank month turn a little Nearer sun, before her plot of earth Grazes on forgetfulness too soon.