Mid February, the hour 
of dowsers, thin moon
on its back. A time to plant

radishes, lettuce; amend.
Tides and hidden water,
the season’s sweep of spheres,

turn in cyclic rhythms.
A woman awake cannot fail to see
Mars, brilliant in the sky, 

and higher still, the thin boat 
of fertility, the thin hope for restraint.
Layer compost and alfalfa—don’t dig,

don’t disturb the nematodes. Add,
keep adding to the soil.  Alarming 
how brightly Mars broadcasts

all night—divide, divide. Best 
to tuck seeds under moonlight, under
the humming sweet unseen. As above, 

we go.  A woman awake plants 
borage, dill, and marigolds—
companion planting, good for honeybees. 

Syllables sprout up against the back 
fence—grow! grow! grow! The whole 
damn place ring-ringing.