In this sub-season

In this sub-season
when snow retreats, revealing
fecal gashes snowplows
leave in lawns
my neighbors—yearning
for perfection—poison,
I scavenge plump pillows 
of moss the plows 
scraped up.

Only in this short season 
does moss rehome,
become a barricade
against weeds mustering
to invade my garden 
and spaces
between stone and concrete.

I am 59.
I feel the pulse beneath snow and earth,
the will to break through, increase.
I know some cracks will go unfilled.