Lettuce Weather
We scratch a tiny furrow with a stick,
pinch in our favorite mesclun mix,
drizzle in clear water from a hose, then
lightly pat the soil with bare palms.
Such springy ritual, showing faith in
a world returning to life. Forsythia
branches cast yellow petals. Two blue jays
scrummage in the white lilac for twigs.
Our elderly neighbor feels spry enough
to climb a ladder and wash her windows
(we rush over to help!) while her grandson
wheels out his motorbike for ride. Yes,
that vacant lot up the street’s for sale again.
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2 comments:
Peter, this fills me with such sweet longing!
p.s. Got the tix, thank you, see you Wednesday!
xoxor
ahh, i love spring. very nice poem. i can't wait for spring!
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