Vigil

Vigil

Winter stands in the corner of my garden,

Rounds her shoulders, tucks her chin, draws tight her cloak of stars and ice,

Razor moon and rain. Spare and erect, gaunt in the darkness,

Bark-peeling with moss predation, slick and black she nods,

She waits, she leans,

The sky shows her jewelry, vents its wet moods. Death litters

The paths with bones and brown rags. Secret life skulks then like a thief:

She finds mushrooms between her toes, grows green and furry slippers.

Long, long.

Until one day the clearwashed air grows sweet and yellow

With acacia, and her memory stirs with the taste

Of a near-forgotten lover’s scent, feels again the warmth of his regard,

And she stretches,

Stretches to find him again,

Turning up her daffodil face.

                                                                                —Mark Green

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s