It Begins

It begins with mare's tails: wisps of ice That spread, ghostly fingers from Beyond the southwestern horizon; her Ears feel the chill as she is planting bulbs.

"Go inside," her chapped hands urge her, "Inside, your steaming kettle waits." "Not yet," she replies. In her mind's eye She watches thousands of daffodils bloom Where grass grew. She must plant hundreds If her dream will breathe. Altocumulus, Those clouds like schools of fish, arrive.

Her hands are hurting her now; cold clay Milking moisture from gapped skin. As she bends, shovel in one hand, Round brown balls of life in the other, Each destined for a hole along her fence, She senses wind lifting skirts of The cottonwoods and willows. Raindrops Are arriving now, slanting through trees, Investing her sleeves and hair with wet.

Leaving off at last, she, crutching on her Shovel, pivots toward tea with fire.