thaw

late winter

in front of the fireplace,

sipping tea

in my bare feet

wood floor,

cool

the scent of a new rug,

chamomile,

lavender,

rain

mist

hovering,  fad  i   n    g

—spring!

© 2017 Jennifer Wagner

March Right In

March right in

with all your green finery,

shake snow dust

from your limbs, your hat.

Sit, I’ve made tea.

Not those tired kinds

you wrote you would have no more of—

as you say, it’s time for oolong.

I read your letter.  Again and again.  Especially

after the sun turned her lights down before

I’d even have a chance to start the day.

I know she needs her rest

before headlining,

but honestly, she can be such a diva.

4pm?  I feel faint.  Quick, I need my brandy and eye mask.

She’s been this way for months now.

Can you talk to her?  Ah, I see you already have,

and the day seems longer for it.

And those cherry trees and daffodils

are yellow, pink, and promising.

So I won’t complain to April—look here she comes—

or hold it against you,

when the gloomy wind blows

stinging rain against my cheek.

I, uh. . .

I promise.

© 2017 Jennifer Wagner

Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Dear March – Come In –.

Shroud

Photo © 2017 Jennifer Wagner

Each season has its own offering.  Spring buds.  Summer glows.  Autumn colors.  Winter shrouds.  In winter, we hold contradictions up to the waning light, swirl them round the glass, sip.  Our losses are bettered in this reflection, when we can begin to see what good comes even after the fissured earth cracks again, when what remains softens, fills.

how silent now

this path strewn with jagged stones

a softening of snow

© 2017 Jennifer Wagner