What Are the Intimations of Mid-April Snow?
Some call it flurries. I prefer
les derniers soubresauts
de l'hiver, a moribund winter's
last jolts, refusing to give up
its last snow- flaked breaths.
It's still breathtakingly beautiful:
an anachronic realm
reminding us of our last
moments, of how we resist,
thinking ourselves invincible,
how we long to make our autumn
stretch, exercise our muscles,
balance our meals, try to finish
our manuscripts in progress,
lest that winter be the last.
This year in particular, I took
solace in daffodils sprouting
in the mud, indigo hyacinths'
vivid arabesques, crisp as ever,
as though nothing had altered
the rhythm of nature. I didn't get
to enjoy my magnolia's early
blossoms for long, a harbinger
of hope whitening the naked
branches, its delicate flowers
eager to dance to comfort the tree,
even before a single leaf emerges,
insufflating greenness. Head-bent
under fluffy flakes, petals wither
at their birthplace awaiting
to be scattered by the wind.
First published by SETU
Anachronic Growth
Snow melted
several times this March.
We'd say, "This one's the last."
Withered grass patches showed
the persistence of solid ground
under the porous white covering.
Here and there,
new green appeared,
defying the Almanac.
I looked everyday through
my kitchen window, checking
leftovers from my herb garden,
hoping all were perennials.
Some days,
Rhododendrons swelled
their asparagus tips,
melting snow uncovered
an oval rug of newborn leaves
in place of the timid shrub of Forget-Me-Nots.
Everyone said
it would not last,
it was bad for the plants,
it would get cold again.
I too, felt impatient, careless,
and the snow came back,
demanding its dues.
First published by Voices International
Early Autumn
After a heavy rain, I drink amber from drooping leaves
heavy with dew, ambrosia from a gold-capped maple leaf
curled into a precious artifact whispering ancient stories
from each delineated vein arising from curved midribs.
I step over fallen petals, sepals still hanging on their stems.
A variegated palette covers the gravel path. Amid pallid
shades, burgundy reminds me of my favorite Rioja newly
opened bottle left breathing on the kitchen counter.
My tastebuds guide me inside to fill my glass with the wine's
thick robe while meat pies exhale an enticing pomegranate
flavor asking to be released from the oven. I set the table
and scatter my harvest of colors around the placemats.
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