for my husband on our anniversary
In the bleakest time of year,
hope burgeons just beneath
the bare bramble where death
quickens into promise of life.
As always, greenbriar is first to hint
that something more is afoot
than just windblown bloom of garbage
stuck in naked trees.
Beyond the schmutz of snow’s debris,
trampled trudge of ashen dust
swirls into animation once more,
asperged with sudden rains
into the smell of new mud
sung over by the rising hint
of a questionable chorus
of young angelic frogs.
To the untrained eye,
it’s all muck and muddle
of winter’s nadir
when we’re all played out,
wearied by the infernal internal
reflection of isolation
at the end of ourselves
at the end of it all.
But to those who look and listen,
the soft sucking of the mud
is life popping out of the grave
back into time.
Snowdrops and crocus and daffodils
turn tentative leaves to the sun,
from tendrils embracing the intimation of hope
mysteriously found within moldering leaves of fall.
Gossiping birds skitter
on lengthened light
that’s had its cloudy shroud
blown blue open by insistent winds.
It's a favorite time of year
when the anticipation of flowers
bloom in memory
to correspond to our wedding day:
the sun promised deceptive heat,
though the air was still quite chilly
with last gasp of icy snow
on cusp of horizon's forecast.
Yet, in holy warmth
of love's familial blossoms,
hope burgeoned as tentative hands entwined
to choirs of friends singing awe-filled "Alleluia!"