Blunt, heated purple
cleaving frigid earth; like you,
mounting my winter.
Walking my garden after the last hard frost, seeing the earth crack in the asparagus bed, knowing the spears will poke up soon, harbingers Spring. Harbingers hope.
Of course, that's the only veggie we're eating now -- up to our eyeballs in roasted lusciousness.
Three more days, three more poems. Peace, Linda