Gardens are best in winter’s slumber, paved with snow,
a few desiccated stems piercing the crust like soda straws.
But once frost loses its grip, soil’s a ticking clock nagging,
spawning toddler-like urgencies to till, fertilize, transplant,
mulch, weed, prune, and spray.
Seed catalog fantasies sprout cracked hands, a sore back
and sweat in August’s relentless bloom and ripening. I’d
plow it all under, but spring is an unhealable hunger.
Upturned clods of earth composted with ripening dreams
and desires, this dirt wasteland is always in flower.