Woodshed at Winter's End

Weathered pine planks house a bark-bottomed blackness
where snow-pressed strands of October grass
rest in steep recline.

Split fir once filled the darkest corner, barred the threshold.
Not today. Dwindling ever down with the waxing
days of March.

Sawdust coats the snow-seeped path, hides black earth beneath
where spring's budding blades
pose unseen.

© Connie Fletcher 2008