Things have occurred: wildfires and uprisings and super-spreader events, a few holidays, an election in the U.S. and a bit of sore-loser wilding on a steps of the capitol in response to that election. A month and change into the new year and the COVID-19 pandemic has not gone away, though there are vaccines now, which is good. I’m looking to update my collection of facemasks for spring, because this is what we do now. I’ll be adding some new colors in anticipation of the flowers that are just around the corner. Forsythia and daffodils in three weeks, friends. Crocus. Tulips. We can do this.

I’ve been writing poems again. I’m trying to do it on the daily, but sometimes I forget. It’s not quite a habit yet. Working on it. Here is one from earlier this week.

Soon

This morning I put on my garden shoes,
walked to the shed where I’d hung my tools
last fall, walked across moss and mud, leaves
left to molder, I do not rake them, much to the
dismay of my neighbors, who worry far more
than I ever could over green grass 
and tidy borders. 

I favor the ragged edge, the fallen hemline of
a secret path, like the cuff of a sweater
unknitting itself a little more with each wearing.

In the shed I find my garden gloves, stiff with winter,
and a pair of reading glasses to decipher the print
on the envelops of cosmos and zinnia, marigolds
and sweet peas. I run a finger along the wooden handles
of my small spade and three-tined rake, say a prayer.

Behind the shed I lift the slender arcs of clustered
forsythia, seeking new buds. Soon, they tells me.
Not today. But maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that.

Or surely, the day after that.