When the First Seed Catalog Comes
we burn trash on the garden
old magazines, drafts of letters,
cereal boxes, packaging.
The compost pile
gets egg shells, potato peelings,
piths and rinds and coffee grounds.
One dead squirrel the dogs delivered home.
Spring is that
we turn things under:
soil so rich and brown
we forget what makes it sweet
and speak of seeds
as a beginning.