(Frost heave: noun.
the uplift of water-saturated soil
or other surface deposits due to
expansion
upon
freezing.)
Frost heaves.
Crackles on the ground
like the top of a chocolate crinkle cookie
waiting to be powdered with sugar.
It's spring today, Feb 1
(St. Brigid, Mary of the Gaels, pray for us)
The groundhog will be buried in snow tomorrow
but for today the sun is out
drying the ground and exposing the
frost heaves.
There are cracks in everything,
(Leonard Cohen says)
that's how the frost gets out,
pushing apart soil
straining to move apart the particles
of clay or loam or old forest duff
fused by bits of bottle and soda cup
and clumps of brown grass.
It's the promise of spring,
is what I'm getting at,
the way the ground etches itself with signs
that the cold has passed and the sun is shining
(even though tomorrow all will be knee-deep in snow),
it's a down payment,
handwriting in the earth if you know to look for it.
And so I look.
How beautiful they are,
the frost heaves.
~~~
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