Mid March,
summer warm, then snow,
There is something in the air.

Poems, pollen, ultimatum,
the garden waiting,
its emptiness a demand.

The heady scents of herbs,
their need for room to flower;
when planting seed

one must keep in mind
the dreams of tarragon and thyme.
In the changing light

the clock works its wonders.
I embrace it
with a sigh.