poor man’s manure

Susan Daniels Poetry

April snow is sullen,
heavy, yellowed with pollen
but determined
to stall budding.

We shake our heads at flakes
falling past their season,
mutter threats against weather
as we take out shovels and brushes
just put away,

but my farmer neighbors
welcome it, call it
poor man’s manure,
till it deep as any other fertilizer
but sweeter-scented,
the metallic tang of ice
worked deep into spring soil.

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