I am late to the Epiphany.
Forgive me, the seed catalogues came yesterday,
slick and bright as a red wet mouth,
cold from the mailbox.
Winter was pressed between their pages,
and it flew out at me while I turned
by yellow squash wombs, gravid in triplicate,
shy, curly-headed lettuces,
lusty teenaged peppers, chests stuck out with bravado.
The garden clay is frozen,
hard as a baked Cherokee pot.
I was too tired to work it last year,
tired of fighting sin, and cabbage worms,
and those three deer who have grown unafraid of me.
This year I am buying a slingshot.
A good one.
I am done with being ravaged.
See here, Goliath, we will have venison,
and green beans on the side.
Only the sage is left, and it leans withered,
tired as I am.
In a few weeks we will break that soil.
We will turn the old death over into the darkness
and turn up new hope to the light.
We will choose a new war to fight.
I will pull every weed out from the edges
and throw it into the gully,
giving each armful a name.
Then I will get a long blue string and two sticks.
I will make careful lines and grooves
and drop white seeds down like hope.
I will sit on my haunches
like Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar before the holy infant,
and watch the peas come.