We clear the ground, snow dense and heavy
on our shovels, our humanness never more frail
as we glimpse this thin line arrowing its way
through a vast field of white, our early spring efforts
outlined row by row. To bare this patch one
shovelful at a time may be fools’ work but it’s also food
for the spirit. Sisyphus, too, claimed joy despite the risk
of angering gods. Laughing, he wouldn’t have waited
for an uncertain sun to melt late-winter blues.
The impulse to measure our progress, even in inches, seems
irresistible. Same thing with seeds, no matter
how small: we push them into wet earth and dream
of the summer sustenance they will become:
melons, cucumbers, squash, peppers, all reaching for the light
even now, even as dusk settles in and cold winds remind us
not to hope for too much this gone-awry spring.