Spring is approaching.
The soil we step on beneath the cement or bricks or what secretly whispers beneath buildings is preparing for its arrival.
As frost fumbles against mouths and breath is replaced by Winter’s smoke, gardeners press their weight into the earth. They bend. They dig. They bend. They dig. They rip open the dirt like impressively wrapped presents. The gift inside are the earthworms, the curiously creeping spiders, the bugs that haven’t been classified yet and the aroma of roots.
A poet walks around Brooklyn where roots are spray-painted on buildings and dirt stalks sneakers and dragging hems. Gardens are on rooftops or windowsills. But as the sun emerges into the sky like breakfast–a scrambled omelet in the sky–humans may be found on their knees, planting
light bulbs. Which will become tulips or apple blossoms or lilies or blue bells. Scarves choke necks and wool itches the exposed skin on bodies as this soil prepares for a giant surprise party for the springtime.