For the girls on Ida Street who wait for Spring’s first bulbs to push unstoppably against the last winter winds: something from my poetry compost bin, where wads of words and scrapped stanzas wait for recycling and rebirth. Happy Saint Valentine’s Day.



Some of us have gardens,
but they’re difficult to find.
Look for rich dark soil,
seeds, bugs, flitting wrens,
twitching tails of stealthy cats,
turning forks, watering cans,
and string-tied straw hats.
Smell the breath of thyme
slowed across a dappled path.
Listen for praise by neighbors
leaning on a picket fence.
Until you find all that,
a garden might look like
a rusted Easy-Bake Oven,
or an old Toyota with a flat.
It’s a matter of serving
your senses, like cooking.
Yes, it should be like that—
without French fries and
pennies under the front seat.

Feb. 14, 2013



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