Spring hasn't sprung but it's getting closer seeds in the ground marks my season sun on the porch and the songs of robins and sparrows

We're all home now, like the old days before cars and in each other's space and I can't stretch my legs enough except

When I haul the lumber to the garden knees in soft soil, dark brown and caked sweat falling off my face bruises on my shoulders

Bare new kiln dried wood smells like work and new things But the bog will eat it over time and until then It will hold back the canary grass While seeds are sewn