Voices on the Wind Voices in the Garden
GARDENERS’ FIRST EXTRA-BLANKET NIGHT by Cappy Love Hanson At that first biting gust, we jerk alert from our pillows, arms tangling like vines in our haste to slam overhead windows, stem the chill that roots between us and prickles our spines. All summer we’ve flung ourselves across sweaty sheets, exposed as begonia blooms. Now we bunch like bulbs to crowd out cold, fingers curled against our chests like infant ferns. Soon enough we’ll stir to autumn’s tasks: deadhead mums and roses, sever seed pods; bag and store them on the broom closet floor, where they’ll split through winter and spit their bounty out for spring. But for now, it’s not the flower beds we tend but our own— mulching torpid limbs with blankets, composting body heat, fertilizing dreams.