April's striving seedlings reach for daylight while daylight was not yet saved, hear disdain toward unborn aphids slug babies from last year are ready to arise like vampires. Recall May's longing each yellow bud a potential red, each leaf soaking in sweet sunlight to store in bulb or root or tuber or explode in chin-wetting slurp. I don't mind the time poured out, brew compost tea, spread worm casings, pinch notch-growers, prune suckers. train stems to grow in frames, pray for warm nights and gentle showers. How happy harvest hope, how lovely, that she and the soil and the water and the sunlight and the green will provide more and better than a farmers' market. October tells a different truth, cool nights refuse the reddening, something's filled a hungry belly, leaves are shriveling as sunlight fades. clean the soil and discard the dead. Dreams buried beneath November's fallen leaves where bulbs wait lift brave shoulders to the cold send out roots to gather the juice that wets Spring's longing.