Winter’s Promise - Patricia Zube

An inch of snow covers the ground.
Stiff-necked weeds poke through
raised beds, laying bare
their sagging heads for spite.

Cucumber frames devoid of vines
leave a wood and wire teepee above
a barren tomb of withered roots,
frozen remains in a shriveled womb.

The corn field keeps no memory
of golden kernels or stalks that once
stretched up to harvest height—holds only
stumpy ends like the week-old stubble
of an old man’s beard.

Shallow roots in a strawberry patch
wait for longer days and stronger rays
to coax their shoots through
stiffened crust of matted straw.

Winter rye’s faded blades guard
fruitless earth from frigid gales’ wrath.
Soil is held captive until
maple trees summon their sap to rise.

The compost pile offers sustaining scraps
to foraging squirrels and rats.
It barely breaths from deep within,
waits for spring’s decaying warmth
to deliver winter’s promise—black gold.