I had to tiptoe and grasp, move slowly, carefully over treacherous ice.
Every move counts.
I do not want to die this way, not here, not yet please and thanks.
But wouldn’t you know it at the back of the garden where the land is higher and the sun is brighter
Way down low, hidden beneath dead sticks, last year’s mint
And underneath the flowering quince that stabs me no matter how much I cut it back. You’re coming out this year buddy — no more last minute reprieves. It was a good run, but I need the space.
The first snowdrops are making an appearance. I know where to look. I needed to look. Needed to be sure that spring is on track.
I saw other green beings, too. Oregano and perennial onions: it won’t be long before I can pick some fresh. Colourful succulents.
I lifted a small clump of green moss and held it to the dog’s nose. Breath that in, I said. Our long, deep rest is coming to an end. We’re now in the tumultuous, restless season of rebirth.
