Migrating in the fall to escape winter,
living only two to six weeks except
for the last generation of the year,
which can live perhaps nine months.
I need flight, escape, migration, a warmer gathering.
It was meant to end this spring.
It was left fallow, without any sowing,
and it allowed for recovery, retaining essentials,
disrupting lifecycles of pathogens by removing hosts.
There is hope with any new growth.
Though I was inspired by a field I saw that had been left fallow – unplanted – last year, the poem is also about the past year of pandemic. We were hopeful that the year of that would come to an end after being fallow. Spring is a hopeful time, but I’m still not sure how much new growth we’ll see this year or what we may be able to harvest at the end of 2021.
of garlic in October – a family tradition.
Hardneck ones underground in fall will sprout
in spring after sheltering all winter long.
Not so different from me these days,
with my papery coverings to protect me.
a daylily is opening beside tomorrow’s bud.
A robin tends her two hungry nestlings.
The sun emerges from behind a cloud.
Peppermint, thyme and sage lose their perfume.
Standing outside in pairs, people are crying.
The new green is amused by raindrops.
How they plop, roll, sit and soak.
One droplet magnifies the leaf veins center.
A star, a circle, coming together and
radiating out with the Sun’s bright energy.
Fine flakes so intricately small they disappear
against bright gray sky, roads and sidewalks.
In this forest, every surface takes some,
except for the creek, which accepts it
as brethren. I extend my bare hands.