I'm definitely not going to get 30 poems written this month. But I'm not going to stop wriiting them, either.

April
This morning
I woke to warmth.
He had started a fire
in the woodstove,
chasing the chill 
from the room,
and the hissing kettle
held enough water
for my coffee.

This afternoon the sun
called me from my desk,
the tilled soil enticed,
the seed packets beckoned,
until I planted,
peas and parsnips
chard and carrots,
with beets and radishes
to break the pattern.

This evening I clean
dirt from under my nails
and dream of sweetness
red and green, crisp orange,
the zest of white,
savoring of the season to come,
while trying to ignore the chill
on my bare ankles.

--Katherine Quimby. All rights reserved.