In February, I Garden
Emily Feuz Jensen
Image by Valentin Hintikka
It’s 40 degrees in February, but feels
like 60. Sun bright, bath-warm.
The baby sits in the stroller, too sensitive
to the scrape of concrete on skin.
He watches brother, elbow-deep in mud.
I work in the flower bed we neglected
last fall. Now, dead
weeds and leaf mold.
A little compost is good,
we said, when we let the leaves lie
where they fell. But now I pull
away the mulch, and the tulips gulp
for air. Orange at their roots and rotting.
Am I too late?
Have I waited too long?
Can we reclaim what was left to rot?
I am sick
of waiting for life to happen. For leaves to lie
and flowers to wilt in their wake.
A little wind blows; The baby cries;
O, these senses!
The toddler has dug
a hole six inches deep,
ten fingers across.
He waits for me to fill it.
From the closet, I rescue
a handful of dry bulbs, bought spring
of 2016, one year newly-wed.
We place one in the earth,
my three year old son and me.
I do not know if it will grow—
But—
Slowly,
I am learning to care
for those things which need me.
Emily Feuz Jensen
Emily Feuz Jensen (she/her) graduated with a BS in Creative Writing from Utah State University and an MFA from Seattle Pacific University. She currently teaches a community creative writing course through Utah State University. Her work has previously appeared in Literary Mama, Exponent II, Cauldron Anthology, and Reservoir Raod. When she’s not writing, she spends time wrangling her two children, two cats, one dog, and one husband. Find her on Twitter @EFeuzJensen.