In the spring, they said, work would come for all. Trees flowered, but counter lines blossomed only with tendrils of outstretched fingers. Come summer, they said, work would awaken, ripen and spill scent. And indeed, the summer saw the power of nasturtiums to stun. But in a distant garden, where the crop needed no hands to harvest. On the counters lay patient fists and arms, like stones from abandoned quarries. Wait, they said, in autumn, the harvest will cry for help, needing those who bend and chop and tie. That season gleaned only people, standing in lines like withered corn, the illusion of summer's wealth in their hands. By winter, all pretense was fled, along with the sun. Flowers lay crystalline, and voices cut like silver, while snow persisted. Lines wove about the counters in the slow ritual of a solstice dance. Yet still, they said, wait but for spring, when bulbs burst and eggs crack under the blue of the sky, and blossoms settle on the branches like butterflies. Blood rushes like sun-released snow. In the spring, they said, work would be there for all.