It’s musky earth that summons spring
and not a dreamy thumb-thru of catalogs,
although a purchase of Big Boy Tomato
and Green-Bush-Bean seeds can help

break the frost. Trendy notion, isn’t it?
To burp the covered flats of planted seed,
to peek at seedlings, to hope for thaw.
Yet, I’d leave thoughts growing on
windowsills, to turn a bit of  earth

in an old garden. I don’t wear flowered
garden gloves. I’m not afraid of dirt
under my nails. I don’t pad my knees.
Don’t wear a hat. I like dirt that crumbles
rich and brown like new promises.

Each spring, double fisted, I scoop up
soil and bring it to my nose. Breathing
in, I lean back into youth. I’m playing
garden music on my guitar. My father,
laughing, asks how music helps my garden
grow. I tell a bad joke about rocks and rolls.

Still, I have known the rocks’ frustration.
They seem to multiply like years,
like ignorance, or forgiveness that’s forgotten.
Yet, when the slow sifting of memory
begins, from remnants, from fertile
mistakes, I build my garden wall.

A retired English and Creative Writing teacher, Sandra DeRose currently manages Social Media for FSCS Health Center and school-based clinics in NJ. She received her Bachelor Degree from Seton Hall University and completed her MFA in poetry at Lesley University. She has been published in Journal of NJ Poets, Philadelphia Stories, and The Best of Philadelphia Stories.