Risa Bear’s speaker is a gardener stuck in the blank stretch before spring, when the soil still sleeps and lilac buds stay closed. Her tools are sharpened and oiled, the arbor and fences are finished, but nothing can grow yet. She spreads out seed packets—peas, beets, radishes—by a cold window, asks the seeds “Now? Now? Now? Now?” and imagines their taste. That waiting makes her restless, even doubtful: she wonders if she has been mistaken about being a subsistence woman, as if the season’s uncertainty has seeped into her sense of self. The mood is suspended and quietly tense. Everything is ready, but the days stay low and lightless. She needs only a small turn toward the sun before her plot of earth, and her purpose with it, drifts into forgetfulness.
That Time — Summary
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.