hope-sewn peas

*a companion to garlic and rye, from last spring*

I put my bare hands in furrows today, deep and dark and crumbling. They were so gently awake, and wide, and warm-smelling so soon after being so frozen. There will still be snow, but now there are peas snug and tucked down tight. A second sleep, and then metamorphosis.

Mine is not so dramatic, nor productive. But in the shower that stung my cracked hands the water ran brown with soil, and it made me laugh the bright laugh that went south with robins and warblers. Then I thanked all of my body, out loud to the walls, yes even the nail beds and blisters.

I do not ask an oak to leaf in winter, but crave its craggy form and trust its sleep. And when I worried how the snow might chill our hope-sewn peas, the farmer shrugged a light, wise shrug and taught me – plants want to grow.