I read in last year’s garden log;
I riffle my seed catalog;
I claw with avid interest through
Better Homes & Gardens, too;
Then down the basement stairs I go
To clean the long-neglected hoe,
To oil the spade, inspect the rake,
And give the Glad bulbs one more shake,
And guess, by hefting, like a miser,
How many pounds of fertilizer.
For though it snows like anything,
The calendar declares it’s spring.
by Ray Romine Sunday, March 25, 1951
