This Will Pass, and Pass

I dug the bones from the dirt by the bus stop. Kept
the gourd from my father’s garden until it gave
against my hands. Showered mold all shades
of day and night. In the city, some keep
airsoft guns for spring when the pigeons nest. Others hold
their grandmother’s hand along the sidewalk.
I have waited so long for this—the wintered vines I knew
bare and static on the church’s face now trail in green
and unfurl. I missed so much
during winter, hardly realized. Next year,
I will turn the sidewalks like a field’s soil. Cleave
and cleave. Then wait for the earwigs and the roly bugs,
an outpouring of legs rushing to the next dark seed.