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Irregular Ode To Covid Spring
written by: Shelly Norris
Local reporters advise gardening
a sanctioned activity. Frugal as
my German grandmother, I poke seeds
salvaged from yesterday’s butchering
of tomatoes and peppers into loose soil.
I swear I hear Gladiola blades slicing forth.
Out of the west, a chill breeze carries
men’s voices softened by distance
and from down road the lonesome
clap of an iron head hammering wood
and further off the faint whine of a semi
gliding along blacktop headed north.
Impatient tweezing individual
seeds into precision, I shake out
a random scatter. Annoyed at that
Blue Jay in the Black Walnut
frantically jape-japing for a mate
and the neighbor’s belligerent rooster’s
crow song signifying nothing. This evening
our stolid governor orders sit, and I fret
for my tiny bedded seeds germinating
out in the cool air. My husband tells me
again it’s not heat that matters; it’s light.
I wonder if this is right
and ask only that these starts will rise
spindly clumps of tangle to sort later.