Late February

a poem

Late February

It is time to bonfire the skeleton
of last year’s garden, maybe during
a Bible study for the college group 
or, one evening, when it is not too 
cold, and not too warm, but just right. 

I made a pile of all that doesn’t last:
spindly squash stems, brittle tomato vines,
unplucked weeds (now hollow straw), 
easy to yank from the snow-tender earth. 

My toddler says: “I help you,” and plucks
up a gray stem full of dried seed pods that 
makes the sound of a musical egg when she 
shakes them. Were I a better gardener, I 
would store them in a ziplock bag, inking
their name across the see-through plastic.

Maybe one day I will become that person.
Right now, I am just experimenting; 
planting, and waiting to see what happens. 
I don’t mind going to Walmart for new seeds 
this Spring. I kind of enjoy picking them out. 

It is late February, and we stay outside 
until we can no longer feel our toes.

Cover image by Ella Ivanescu