by Robert McDonald
It’s strange to think of you today, when the crocuses
bloom
on a lawn decked with snow. But the grand
blossoming
is not yet come, and the sky
if it had its way
might declare “never,” might call
for sleet,
for snow, for northern wind.
November
frosts the icy glass
of the April day,
and arrests
the slow greening
of the lawn.
November
would push
every bud back
into the earth.
We might long for wings.
We might dream
we are ravens. Even
a wicked heart
will love
the stained world.
The sky darkens, the snow
becomes
a dance,
and every ballerina
beautifully falls.
bloom
on a lawn decked with snow. But the grand
blossoming
is not yet come, and the sky
if it had its way
might declare “never,” might call
for sleet,
for snow, for northern wind.
November
frosts the icy glass
of the April day,
and arrests
the slow greening
of the lawn.
November
would push
every bud back
into the earth.
We might long for wings.
We might dream
we are ravens. Even
a wicked heart
will love
the stained world.
The sky darkens, the snow
becomes
a dance,
and every ballerina
beautifully falls.