They say Vermont has two seasons: winter, for which
we insulate, stack wood, set aside funds for other fuel,
fill cupboards with applesauce and beans, examine
last year’s boots for “good enough” or “got my
money’s worth”

and two months of poor sledding. You should laugh now
because the flip side grows grim. Gardeners, determined
to tend the land and celebrate color, and to raise from seeds
green vines bearing gold and crimson fruit, to honor
bright rows of carrot tops

with orange roots thickening below—they too mark
a long season. The seed catalogues stack up in December.
At mid March a sunny windowsill’s crammed, tiny sprouts
competing and climbing. In May I test my worn knees
digging rocky soil—

now September hovers, hints of autumn chill, apples
blush and sweeten like kisses from an old beau.
In darkness I dream of past years’ problems, wake
to evidence of carnage. Deer visited the night beds.
Gorged, with gusto.

Pail in hand, I spend my morning gleaning. Gathering.
Saying aloud, “I’ve got to bring what’s left inside.” Soaking
last year’s jars in sudsy water, heating the canning kettle.
Confronting the calendar, counting days. Deer will retreat
when hunting season opens.