April is the month we are busy
with questions of great urgency.
Will the lilies, last year’s disappointment,
not only emerge, but bloom?
Did the dahlias freeze in their winter bed,
the bare ground testimony to our careless November?
Why are all free day lilies orange?
What is the name, again, of that farmer’s market find
purchased on a whim?
Even as I humbly acknowledge
that once again, I’ve waited too late
to plant the spinach,
I pray against late frost.
In the foothills of South Carolina
when a freeze is threatened past Easter,
we are all peach farmers
and all pacing strawberry fields,
hands hovering blessing and protection over the tender blossoms.
These are the weeks when Hope pushes up
with the force of a stem through the red clay,
and plots and plans for beauty and a full belly
from the earth that may bake and crack
come first of August.
I need the woman I am in springtime,
sowing words and life and possibility
against future forecast and past history.
Writing along with other good folks