Hard Frost

The thaw has pulled back the sheet of the snow

to show the grey matted mess of the yard.

The garden is a place where nothing will grow,

where the dirt has been beaten and pressed down hard.

I tripped on the hose, half-buried in grit,

stiff as a bone and still full of ice.

The tomato cage is rusted and starting to split,

trapped in the mud like a mechanical vice.

It’s hard to look at the beds when they’re bare,

knowing the rot is my own quiet fault.

The lack of the green is a heavy-eyed glare

at the summer I left to a season of salt.