How can I sit here reading—the woodchuck nibbling near the unset trap.
My favorite film a bore when viewed with others— hands tightly twisted.
Strawberries require a heavy mulch of straw to make successfully through the winter (which informs one of the theories about the etymology of the name). One of the first garden tasks in spring is to peel the mulch back and expose the plants to the sun. The poem below is about this.
--- Hands sore, back aching— fresh out of bed, strawberries in the spring sunrise.
A triptych window— the maple’s budding branches fill every pane.
Absolute coldest moment of the day—puffed robin in the porch sun.
This spring I raised day-old chicks to replenish my chicken flock. They quickly progressed from wobbly baby steps to confident leaps to the top of their feeder and waterer. The poem below is about this.
Weeks after wobbling walking—their waterer’s top is now the flock’s perch.
Three nights of deep freeze— removing the frost covers without any hope. Lettuce, spinach, bok choi, kale— I name each with joy, alive.
The chicks knock over their waterer again, this busy afternoon.
Coop cleanout, spring wind— on the barn’s broad ridge, airing its wings, the buzzard.
Dome-less silo perched, the buzzard gently watches my farm chore ramblings.
Glittering concrete floor—no one saw the light bulb tumble in the barn.