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Contents Page: July, 2010, vol 6 no 2

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C. David Sinex


Winter’s given up.
Emboldened, spring has her way.
White to gray to green.
The snow has mostly melted.
An empty garden stares back.

Seed catalogs come in January; the best-known cure for cabin fever. Friday night, at Robin’s weekly bridge game, we’ll all talk of seeds. With the worst of winter yet to come, it’s the first true sign of spring.

Big Boy, beefsteak, both? Another giant pumpkin contest? The banter soon turns to last year’s successes and failures. “Have you heard from Helen?” someone asks. “No, why? Should I have?”

Driving to Raleigh.
My truck pulled your horse trailer.
I returned empty.

The warm soil is tilled and planted. Spring’s labor is summer’s bounty. Windfall trees are waiting to be cut and split. Nature’s done the hardest part for me. Spring’s labor is winter’s warmth.

It was spring when we met, and spring when you left. Winter took its toll. There’s someone else, now. But spring still makes me think of you.

Skis are put away.
The road to town’s now open.
What’s to keep me here?

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