In Which Ground Is To Be Broken

My worst friend has the best plan for my yard:
A rented rototiller soon will tear
Into its soil; I hope it won't be hard
To do, but if it is, of course I'll share
A lot of beer to thank him for the toil.
'Tis not the whole expanse he'll overturn,
Just a small garden plot. We've lovely soil
Here in Cheyenne, though of course there's concern:
The growing season's short, but still I hope
To grow some beets and turnips, carrots, some
Nice fennel, parsnips, rutabega. Nope,
Not going for the fancy stuff. That's dumb
Here on the high plains, unless one has built
A full greenhouse. That's "someday" to the hilt!

Vernal Equinox, Hmm? Maybe Somewhere Else

Oh, and to think that only yesterday
I sat right here, seed catalogs in hand,
A-choosing plants as though it were near May
And time to sow a garden on my land!
Today the horizontal slow flies by
To mock my dreams and hopes and make me stash
Those catalogs. But I refuse to cry
Or throw those pretty booklets in the trash.
At some point soon this crap has got to end.
I don't believe in Fimbulvetr (or
In much besides, at this point, O my friend);
But know that I have been a damn fool for
The Ides of March, or something. I must wait
Until the real spring comes, as always, late.

This Spring At My New House Will Be Especially Interesting

At my new house, we have made up a game,
Regarding all the flora of my yard,
Consisting of attempting just to name
The shrubs and plants that come 'neath our regard.
Spring won't be here for a short while to come
To tell us if we're right or if we're wrong.
A few of them defy us, and then some
Are myst'ries such that we're not sure the strong
Swift pulse of life still surges through them, or
If they are dead and need removed. Perhaps
Some lilacs, maybe currants are in store.
I hope that one's a crabapple. There are gaps
'Tween what I hope and what I'll have at last,
But that's my fun for now, and it's a blast.