This is not the garden yet, but
a beginning, seventeen years worth
work submitted to wills and whims of
climate. Mid-April and the ground
only now in view, shawls of snow
lying about like dirty underwear
after a particularly long night. The mud,
the mud, it’s all mud. Who knows what
survives? One thing

for certain: there will be dandelions.
There are always dandelions, they came
and appropriated this land, most sunny
disregard for human notions of indigeneity.
They are what they are, wherever
they are, a bold laugh in the face of anyone
who’d fight them for a place in the sun.
I am waiting for them, and

this year, maybe more than ever, I’ll be
uplifted by their bold certitude. This year, Elke
has flown away, soul laughing free of worn out
body. She taught me how to cook
them, a thing i knew as theory, she
put into most delicious practice. Now, I will
step into it, step up, raise high a flag we shared
declare for dandelions. They always get a place
in my garden; this year, I will sing to them.

Another piece for the inimitable Elke Blodgett. See also Spirit Mothering and Gone to Starlight. The image is by user Arcaion, at creative commons outlet pixabay.com.