Spring 1998 • Vol. XX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1998 |

Planting Peas in March Mud

The first upturned brown earth releases its scent of ferment and decay, the going and coming of all that reaches and grows. I lie on its bed, chilly still with the sun's warm hand on myflank and make furrows. I drop each seed in with a patience I bring to nothing else. I dig, covered soon in dirt all the way to my waist. Don't you have any supermarkets a friend asks, bemused by our vegetable patch. I do not say how grubbing in the dirt satisfies me, fires the ends of my nerves. The smell of my earth makes me hungry for everything. Spring opens red leaves in my chest.

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