by Elizabeth Wickland
FALLOW
Today I planted crocus bulbs— their
fibrous husks slipping off
between my fingers as I pressed
them into the fallow—
before and after
—like fall and spring,
barren winter in-between—
helping a friend
swaddle her 23-year-old son
in words like linen
strips, ripped from their beauty
by this obituary-shaped
casket, buried—
planted—
in life immemorial.
What holds
within the papery thin
pushes through
what will still be
frozen
when time returns us
to the fallow
and finds it in bloom.
ELIZABETH WICKLAND
Elizabeth Wickland lives in Bozeman, Montana. She has a love for words and their stories and has responded to life through poetry and art for as long as she can remember. She also enjoys gardening and cultivating beauty in her small corner of the world, both in person and online. She writes for The Black Barn Online, and her work has appeared in I’ve Got a Bad Case of Poetry, published by Bandersnatch Books, Calla Press, The Way Back to Ourselves, Bella Grace Magazine, The Poetry Corner Podcast, and more. Her book Borrowed Words: Why Poets and Communities Need Each Other is forthcoming from Square Halo Books in March 2027. You can find her on Instagram at @punamulta.priory and elizabethwickland.substack.com.