Friday, March 13, 2015

winter's hold, slips

crocus and loss

two weeks ago, winter,
though late to come,
came with a vengeance
and the world out the window was white,

as if it forgot color and spring,

inside our power still worked so we could nest
with flowing warmth and water and electronics,
books and food and naps pulled at me,
and with my three-week-old tomato plants

I dreamed of the return of color and change to the world,

great air masses shifted
and southerly winds melted the snow
and awoke spring peepers, the first trout lilies,

the exuberant audaciousness of bright crocus,

the dependable solidity of lusciously-yellow daffodil,

I tilled the garden and imagined our native pumpkin thriving,
the sugar snap peas exuberant,
the buttercrunch lettuce in a perfect salad,
the tomatoes beating July to the table,

part of me reaches forward to what the future can bring,
another part of me reaches back to who we’ve lost,

part of my gift is to remember, and it’s also a curse,
for those I’ve lost, close to me, haunt my dreams
and keep interrupting the sureness of my day and my sleep,

the crocus demands I be in its moment,
my memory demands I be in all the moments before.

by Henry H. Walker
March 18, ’15

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