What else to do with a day that announces itself through wind and streaks of cloud and lilac buds and finch arguments and drying mud and the sharp green tips of wood hyacinths but to dig garden soil? "Over your body the clouds go," remarks Sylvia Plath, and "The sap / Wells like tears." Trees pin the sky to the earth; the pterodactyls are hatching their eggs; a dandelion flexes its muscular root. Spring is the least nostalgiac of seasons. Everything is modern. Even the lovage shoots have no patience with I-told-you-so. Throw away the old, trample on it, mow it down: only the young matter in the new world.