April

The local deities, undecided: pelt them with ice
Or pour warm gold on them this afternoon? A little of both.
Inside, mere embers on my hearth gasped for rekindling,
So I stepped out to the woodpile—
But the glow on doug firs across the street stopped me,
Stunned me, drew my eyes higher—then
The bruised and livid sky drove out all thoughts,
Kindling or otherwise.
There I stood, chin in the air (am I already eccentric to my neighbors?)
When T pulled up. Good thing my friends
Understand me; it saves a lot of explaining.
Before twilight had rubbed all color from the sky, we had seeded
Snow peas, spinach, beets,
And when he left I trimmed out last spring's herbs,
Now mostly soggy naked stems.
But the wet dirt, lavender, thyme lay redolent on my hands.