My hands are in the dirt

My hands are in the dirt

the ground is soft
from seasonal rain

after the shadows
of deep winter
trap me inside

yellow Oxalis flowers
are a blanket

my fingers seek
the weeds between
tendrils of stonecrop

and tiny echeveria fallen
from the mother plant

February storms
may still destroy
newborn crowns

the sliver of sun
over my neighbor’s house

breaks raindrops into
pastel prisms

assurances of spring