It is zero degrees out
and I am filling my seed trays
I have sent off the queries
and manuscripts
to places even colder
pent up energy
propels me through the empty house
looking for useful activities
There is twenty inches of rimey snow outside
hard enough to dent one’s ideals
inside I am handling dry soil
individual seeds
that have laid patiently in their paper
waiting
they think spring is coming
it is all they think of
I level the soil knowing
that without me
there is no hope for them
even with me
their future
looks precarious
by Michael Favala Goldman
Originally published in The Fourth River, April 2015, p.85