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.
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