The melting snow makes for unsure footing as we stumble along the early spring trail. In the distance, ice on the pond cracks open. You are telling me that I can't save everything, a gentle admonition to my tears over the pigs. Millions of them buried alive in South Korea due to a disease outbreak.
When dusk spreads like melted pewter, and I am back home and alone, I pick up the plants I have started from seed in newspaper pots and take them out into the chill evening air to harden them off. Just for a little while tonight. A bit longer tomorrow and so on until they can handle the cold nights once I've planted them outdoors.
I sit on the ground with the life-buds around me. Anticipating the planting season, I sink my hands into the churned up earth. My left hand grazes a smooth rock and I flinch at its likeness to a snout pushing up. I leave it there and take the seedlings inside. But I am not ready.
a faint heartbeat
pulsing in my open palm –