Yahara Winter

"To think to know the country and now know
The hillside on the day the sun lets go
Ten million silver lizards out of snow!"

     – Frost, from "A Hillside Thaw"







The melting days of mid January
has left old piles of golden leaves bare,
alone, unable to fly or sink down
for cover in the frozen solid soil.

These in-between seasons carry
neither sun or snow-white invitations.
Wishes of the mind leap backwards
as if to the first words of a sentence.

The clearer there I see the bright
symphony of purple spiderwort
blooming behind the spiral blazing star,
the sunflowers a sweet ochre yellow.

If I were to reconstruct the words
today the flakes would tumble down wide
and wandering like white envelopes
holding wild white letters of hope.