Early Spring

March 2015

From the root-cellar
the last of the winter squash
still succulent
the poem you wrote recalling
a grandmother's hearty soup

Sap drip-drips
from the grandmother maple –
the tin pail
my six-year-old hung,
how slowly it fills

Mud season –
in tux and stiletto heels
we admire
our convertible
stuck in moonlight

Snowmelt
so slowly into thawing soil
re-gifting
all those tales
inherited by a sleepy girl

Through fog
the weightless light
of apple blossoms
a white-throated sparrow
calls me deeper

c.p.