A Love Note to My Garden

In January I am always homesick for my garden.

Who, in their right mind, wouldn't long for the blue
of forget-me-nots, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the yellow
of sunflowers?

The purveyors of seeds
torture me with color
and $3 packets of organic seeds
that will yield no immediate satisfaction
until maybe June.

I miss the smell of dirt
and the way you lodge yourself under my nails.

What I would give to scrub you from under your hiding places,
rather than remove an extraordinarily dry pine tree from my living room
and leave it stranded for birds on the snowy deck.

So tired of the darkness.

So envious of places where ice and snow
are absent and red blooms brightly.

May I cultivate dreams
worthy of you
and basil,
green beans,
and the enthusiasm
of volunteer cherry tomatoes.