To the Algonquin speakers of the various
nations, this was the Seed Moon. Indeed
in midMarch we stick the slightly shriveled
seeds of peas into the cold earth.
Soon it's time for spinach and arugula,
white and red radishes, lettuces, cabbage.
Soon the soil crumbles in the hands
rich, a little sticky like devil's food cake.
The hill is bright with herds of daffodils
little intense blue scillas a color the sky
won't offer for months, red emperor
tulips lolling open like satin mouths.
It gets cold at night but the sun controls
the afternoons. Woodpeckers drill
ratatat on the house to impress mates.
Goldfinches sport their new plumage.
This moon summons buds to swell,
blows pollen in drifts, sucks the sap
as well as the tides. Earth cracks
over sprouting seeds and the geese
fly ounder the moon at night honking
while traveling ducks rest in the pines.
This moon makes everything rise, open
in a headlong hungry rushy to mate.
—Marge Piercy, reprinted in The '13 Lunar Calendar
See Bill Moyers: Sounds of Poetry (1999), Poet Marge Piercy