From the Fishouse

The first sturdy bee begins
To cross-pollinate the few flowers
Opened around the house.
It is March seventy degrees.
Last week saw snow on the ground.
A mosquito siphons my arm
And I do not smash it, stunned
As we are by being here.
Four lambs were born
And one is in the recycling bin
Dying. The ivy didn’t
Survive the last hard cold spell.
Some things believed to be hardy
Are not so. I miss you.
Ewes remaining in birthing pens
Chomp grain and choice-cut, waiting.
Blackbirds in the hemlock vie
For respite. Slurry-bins
Steam, fragrant, field-side.
If there is danger, if no world lasts
Who’s to say we were even here at all?