Ostara Song

                              Just for this day, the wire grass is my friend.
                              His sacrifice unzips the fresh coffee grounds
                              of live earth worms in sodden, dead loam.
                              The textures of life hum a taciturn ohm,
                              healing my palms, removing the sting.

                              Just for this hour, my mind is unchained.
                              In the zen of monotony, a breathless breeze
                              invades each crevice; a gelatin balm,
                              smothering the static with insidious calm.
                              Compelled to give honor, I sing.

                              Just for this minute, my back is strong.
                              Digging up dandelion, pulling up poke,
                              wrangling the old growth, and raking away
                              the stagnant needles and lacy decay.
                              I’m struggling up from death again--
                              falling into spring.