[title subtitle=”lines: Glenn Wigington”][/title]
My cobbely plot of gray soil,
hand-turned with a pronged fork last October
waits for the earth’s March tilt
to bring the year’s first thunder.
I can smell the moisture
in the southwest wind
rising off the winter coast.
Dogwoods and maples
frozen and bunched
and waiting for warm mists
to flow up the Ouachita hogbacks,
cooling, coalescing, melting to droplets
a thousand to the thimbleful
that can rouse a turnip seed
from its slumber
or dissolve a mountain.
