The earth rests in a subtle crust
as frozen flecks stretch through 
the tilled rows.
A late frost delays planting
for a few days. She waits for the sun
to accommodate the need
to drop seed
that dance and root.

Once seeds find their place,
each row is covered,
a mother
laying a quilt over her children,
drenched in care.

She whispers this is her last garden,
an echo across the valley. The memory
of sage that tripled in size the day
her youngest was born, flowers ripe
in bluest indigo, rests on her.

The last garden will house the usual,
snow peas with purple flowers nodding
in gentle haiku. The dark green splash
of rapini woven through rows of tomatoes
and a chorus of sweet basil.

She can almost
smell the ancient fragrance. Potatoes, parsley
with a mention of garlic chives will line 
the back border, close to the
sweet water well.

Fruited flowers to float in vinegar, always
a tradition. And the bee balm,
Oswego sweetness, the treat of hummingbirds,
the deep red of blood drenched in
the myth of Pyramus and Thisbe.