Poem by Fredrica Wyman, a Friday salon regular

Spring pandemic

Out by the back fence
I'm digging this year's
compost pit.
Beside it, in the middle,
lies a pile of
the eponymous product:
dark, aged, fragrant, fresh
soil in a mound that grows
as I excavate, tear into
the old area, mine it
down to hardpan
then I'll start over
again...
2 or 3 years. It will take
about that long I guess
        I negotiate with her
        but she's had it
        with us.

Meanwhile the garden
is awake in
onion tops,
witches' grass, blue squill,
starts of lungwort
and everywhere the
central new growth
under crinkled foliage mats-
T h i s  j u s t  i n !
breathless.

I clear the dead growth,
chop it up
for the pile on the right
of discarded
clutter. Chaos,
my bargaining chip,
feeds it, demands
it bulks up as my efforts
toward control
make the garden beds
more raw and
exposed there I
shiver 
in the afternoon,
fear infection,
and go back to digging.

I will layer my grave as 
Corylopsis showers down
her yellow benediction,
a rare gift this
murderous spring.