The mower grinds the last of the autumn leaves
and blows them over the gardens
Where the spring-summer bulbs sit thinking,
about their future
The leaf bits, packed by snow,
provide an absolute cover.
The lazy man's mulch.
					
Fork the leaves at robin time.
The short, sturdy legs of the hyacinth
are already escaped from the cold
with white blossoms at the ready.
But the rest, the jonquils, tulips, and iris
have breached the earth and then curled back,
unable to penetrate the leaf barrier.
There they stand, weak, curled, and pale.
					
They need what we need.
We have spent winter curled within ourselves,
tight, needing the spring sun,
The straightening rays of warmth to let us
uncurl, loosen, and streach again.
To let us unroll our winter-curl and,
like the jonquil and fiddlehead,
throw open our arms to the sky.