April

My peonies sleep
curled into their red roots
frozen with the ground.

I walk with what is left of winter
and discover a tiny animal, wet and black,
bereft of possibility.

It’s too close to spring to die.

William says
we need a month of sunny days
before we dig and plant.

This morning,
a hale storm threw
a million tiny pearls
onto tawny fields
that disappeared
as soon as they landed.

We wait.
We wait.
We wait.