Winter

I cannot survive another winter, here.
In Spring, I plant the hard-shelled seeds
and watch the fingers erupt from the earth;
In Summer, I pluck the flowers, the fruit,
the fragrant things,
the offered vittles,
and in Autumn,
(that most loathsome of seasons),
I watch the vines curl, the leaves
prune and blacken, I
see the fruit molder,
fluffy mildews, crown-rot,
fireblights;
the vibrant greens drain to brown,
to gray,
Drooping at every frost
like sickly children.
I think,
I cannot survive another Winter, here,
and long to see the Spring.

‘try writing something nice for once’

It’s easy to focus on the storm,
and hard to focus on the soil –
Dirt? Just dirt?
flecks and specks, a place to toil
all hard clays and loam,
a place to sweat upon
and feel the rain, and fear
the thunder.

It’s easy to focus on the storm,
and hard to focus on the soil;
harder, still, to imagine the seeds
of promised flowers,
green and brown and white,
glazed with seeping moisture,
and the tiny sprout
surging upwards,
reaching towards the sunlight,
spurred by a passing storm.