The Promise of Earth

Falling snow
mingles with pink petals
of apple blossoms
on these last days
of April.

The instinct
to stick out my tongue
and taste the sweetness
is delighted and hopeful
the peas won’t freeze
and the purple haze of lilac
will awaken just as soon
as the clouds clear
and the full moon
breaks through the dark
like your pronouncement
of love, bold and exact
as redemption.

Forgive me
for loving you back
in this unexpected turn of events.
It is,
like this late snow,
breathtaking and confusing
to see the light of flowers glow
while in the same blurry vision
dreams that winter has arrived
to turn back time.

In the other life
that resides in my shoulders
I wrapped my sorrow around me
like a shawl of prayer
willing my worry to arrive
at the dooryard—
making his unhappy deliveries
day after dark day.

Fear was that stray kitten
who would not be coaxed
from between the truth
of my solid ribs
and who waited
for the white flakes of morning
to melt and find a way to trust
in the silence,

understanding the grasp
at the scruff of the neck
was comfort
and might mean home.

Back at my gray window
I look out at the shaking fingers
of maple leaves,
watch the tight curls of a fern
relax even under the weight
of these cold kisses.

I have become my sister,
Emily Dickenson,
gazing from the inside out,
looking for the words to release
unexplained pain
like an exhalation
of a long held breath
or the startled bird
taking to flight.

From this high place
above the landscape,
let me instead notice
I am not a prisoner
without the keys
to my dark cave of a cell,
but rather
the spaces between the elements
of water and fire

and the air lifting
snow gently
to the promise
of earth.