The Wait: A Spring poem for that Rocky Mountain Way




The Wait


I wanted to embody spring

but the snow kept coming.

The sun kept hiding and

I couldn't wait for green.

So I made my own verdant way

in a shouting mess of snowflakes

to a corner of yard that begged no pomp or parade.

I asked birch of her branches

how to find depth in different shades of brown.

I asked birds of loud noises

how to sing falsetto.

I tried to look at what could come of a day where

the sun would stop hiding her face,

Mine tender and tired.

 One old coat of down and a woolen pair of mittens

keeps this husk in layers.

Unfurling now seems an act of perdition

as ice lights up in electric blues.

I remember that Spring promises

and melts, all in one breath.

So I release a daring bare hand from safekeeping,

rebellion feeling hot cherry red and the

sizzle *sting* sobers my upturned fingers.

Webbed parts now start to drip with melting flakes

as I stand amused, watching

fat droplets form, curving nail to crease.

I turn, spattering into unlikely sun 

a touch of indignation felt

as though unending prayers of jubilant chickadees

were somehow all joke.

I stuff my freshly damp hand back in my home of a mitten once more,

frustrated when a thumb catches the inside knitting.

I extend myself forgiveness

like a mountain would,

dense and clumsy these bones in boundaries.

 Pursed lips hold a forced exhale into cold wet.

The glow of night starts to touch forest familiar. 

How long ago it was that these trees budded their way green.

Western sky pushes me further down the trail

all mottled ground hollowed by snow and needles.

I squish my foot like a child would, slowly

into a soggy set of dead leaves and soft, 

when slatted light suddenly bursts into existence, crashing boot-top

into a seismic kaleidoscope of hot orange, plum harvest, cabernet.

Impossible stretches of crimson through the trees grow even more electric

as wet white starts to kick down on my now molten mud-puddle.

In awe of such a violent swirl of change, I upturn my toes 

and sink back into my heels as though to plant them there.

I find my pulse quicken, oddly overtaken

as this fat wetness laughs in my face.

I let it. For what is surrender without release?

Bleached branch, blotted pads of old snow, whites in blue backing

folded fields of grass bleached by winter, leaf like lace wings

a cacophony of textures and noise like radio I can't escape.

I turn back towards the house and cover

clonk clonking in my winter boots

slash shish slash through puddles not yet frozen

stomping over hot streaks of evening sunshine

I wanted so badly to stay.

An exercise in patience, I thought, and smiled.

 In the distance, a neighbor dog tells me his stories. 

A crow beckons his mate to a roadside kill.

Winter-fed Deer weave skinny shadows across the horizon.

Not here. Not yet. But soon. 

One strangely lit flurry at a time.








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