February now
and the snow comes down
like white petals,
apple blossoms.
I am the caterpillar wrapped in silk
melting into what I will become.
I envy those who cry in ink,
who can spit and bleed and vomit their way
into poetry.
I envy the dancers who are their own instrument.
No butterfly, I.
But to drift out above all your heads
or to sink into the soil
or to grow into a tree, yes, I think
a tree, that perfect bridge
of sky and earth.
Symmetry at every level, the branches splitting, the roots dividing, the lines of the bark, the leaves’ tiny veins, forked, green thoughts, gentle dreams
My mother’s hands, strong thin limbs and twigs
My father’s eyes, all green and flurried and turned
towards sunlight
My dreams,
carried on the wind thrust into the earth hardened into the fruit-the flower-the seed…
To the ones who know how to listen
the forest is full of quiet conversation
and just occasionally,
all the trees, all at once
will
burst into song.
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Submission Name: What Happens In the Winter
