One early spring evening, I went out to see if any of my greens had overwintered under frost cloth. I picked enough spinach for our salad that night. This poem was handed to me from the creative ethers, all of a piece, at the same time.
She waits for a telegraph from spring.
Pushes aside the wadding,
finds tiny leaves infused with the hardship of winter.
Plucks one leave at a time.
Only the willing are chosen.
Finds hope in the salad,
omens in the earth.
This is what hope tastes like to her:
sweet, generous, green.
8-1/2″ h x 8″ w
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