Iron Edge

From ground cold and black, 

sparks fly up 

when your spade hits a stone 

deep in soil you had thought 

was well-worked. 

For a moment, your arm quivers a protest

as if this shiver, the tingle and burn of it, 

were a warning

that “tender” bulbs buried here 

amidst hidden rocks, 

rarely last to a second spring,

but today in April four years hence 

are blooms 

too many to count.