The Waiting Time

in answer to Jane

the orchards and vineyards
are still bare;
late winter winds
rattle branches
below the snowy
bluffs of Horse Mountain
and farmers pace
like anxious fathers
in hospital corridors,
checking the heaters
and plucking buds
to see which still
contain the sweet
promise of fruit.
The pruning has been
done. The ditches
are burned. All
is clear, except
what lies ahead
and, on this hazy
Saturday, there’s nothing
to do but take out
new clothes, hide eggs
for the children,
and wait.

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