Writing Our Way into Spring
by Mary Jo Balistreri

It is May
and Spring is late.
The trees languish with leaves
too small to wear. Crabapple
buds tighten themselves
into knots. Bruised tulips
and crocus droop under air
too heavy to breathe.
Winter scrunches down,
sags into his frosted recliner.
Old, with frozen habits, he
avoids movement–and change.

Abby and I, absorbed in words
and line breaks, don't notice the mood
shift at first. The sun, like rising yeast,
pushes through massed clouds, sifts
warmth and light onto the kitchen table
where we write. The scent of lilac
spills onto the table. Remember she says
when we used to give each other lilacs?

By late afternoon,
the day dresses in gold bracelets
and sequins, dapples the cedar
in shimmering half tones.
We look at each other and smile.
The unrolled space of new life
flutters around us like a silk shawl.



 

Return to: