A woman is outside planting daffodil bulbs as the weather turns. The mare’s tails and altocumulus clouds signal a shift, and she feels the cold in her ears and cracked hands. Her chapped hands urge her to go inside where the kettle is steaming, but she refuses, because she is picturing hundreds of daffodils blooming where grass now grows. The work hurts—cold clay pulls moisture from her skin—but each bulb is a small round promise of life set along the fence. Rain begins to slant through the cottonwoods and willows, soaking her sleeves and hair, yet she keeps planting until she finally leans on her shovel and turns toward tea by the fire. The mood is quiet, gritty, and hopeful: she accepts the discomfort of cold, wet work as the price of the spring she is trying to create.
It Begins — Summary
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.