Fatigue tugs at me heavy as rocks 
in my pockets, it’s been February for months. 
Overhead barren branches—long, bony 
fingers reach for some sign—below 
the whiskey stink of rotten leaves.

Out here in my soggy Seattle garden,
when I say my sister’s name it’s more spell 
than memory. She would howl with laughter, 
scold like crows to see me as this woman 
who weeds, who waters. 

Going back all those years
to summers spent on hands and knees, 
tending row after row of father’s cukes 
or corn or nearly every vegetable 
known to grow. We wished for drought 
or blight, when we learned of locusts, 
we prayed for plague.

Out here, just when winter is about to 
break me like a dry twig—
daffodils appear from nowhere—
green growth popping through rough dirt.
A reminder the muddiness, the mess of it all 
makes sense. 

Scent of damp soil still has the power
to transport me to that childhood house, 
that Midwest basement where sometimes 
a whiff of vinegar and dill from a broken jar 
of pickles lingered in the root cellar. 

There on wood shelves—little soldiers 
lined up at attention, chests puffed out, 
name tags on display—apple butter, 
green beans, beets, tomatoes, way too 
many tomatoes,

plenty for long howling winters.