when spring awakes,
I am not ready.
my rested bones sigh
at chores ahead.
the gardens demand attention—
feed me, sow me, weed me, turn me.
when spring awakes,
my sleek hair takes on
another life—frizz.
I grumble as the
tidy hoses unfurl,
and brace as I haul
against their weight.
when spring awakes,
I wonder
shall I hoe, plant, harvest, outwit
insects?
or shall I give in to another.
Copyright © 2012 by Diane LaSauce All Rights Reserved
