Spring
Spring hasn't sprung but it's getting closer
seeds in the ground marks my season
sun on the porch and the songs of robins and sparrows
We're all home now, like the old days before cars
and in each other's space
and I can't stretch my legs enough except
When I haul the lumber to the garden
knees in soft soil, dark brown and caked
sweat falling off my face
bruises on my shoulders
Bare new kiln dried wood smells like work
and new things
But the bog will eat it over time
and until then
It will hold back the canary grass
While seeds are sewn