qarrtsiluni

Spears of new jonquils push through black
mulch beside sweet-green hair of garlic,

nets of shivering rosemary and sage,
leafless stalk of a prickly old climber.

I turn a palm of dark crumbling winter
leaves into damp soil, mix in crushed eggshells,

coffee grounds dried in a ceramic bowl
from a week of mornings. In the latent

garden ferns send furry runners under
cover to network with iris tubers,

bulbous elephant ears, blind-white onions.
If I poke the lean edge of my trowel

into earth, decaying smells of birthing
rise from what lies beneath that skin to mine.

by Katherine Durham Oldmixon

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