I
If I look out the window
of this house I am given
to live in white
ice and snow
my own heart
frozen
the landscape
a picture
of what I am
to myself
my family my
surroundings
softer
and warmer
than ever I might
in a more luckless
time have known
but I do not
count my blessings
as I know I should
though there
are
no shoulds
she tells me
four chairs
to sit on
and a sleeping cat
on each
Motley
on the divan
Big Kitty
on the rocker
I might push to
the window and read
in the coming
light
Hamlet
asleep on another
and in the
easy chair
Baby Cat
curled up
in peace
And all this
reminds me
to let things
fall into place
around me
as best I can
Leslie
asleep in our bed
our next child deep
in her womb
Ethan
in his crib
what
pleasures and fears
will lead him
away from his soul
what kind
word or hand
someday
lead him back
II
On the third
of February
I make my
annual call
for spring
Winter is
killing me
again it
finds me
as usual
wrapped in myself
Every winter
it’s the same old
thing only
older older
this is what
the ritual
seasons
always forget
to tell
that
we all die
a real and final
death
as well
and each of these
winters
brings us closer
to what it means
to turn white
as driven
snow
III
God knows
we try to beat it
as even these Hyacinths
forced into life
bloom now
in February
for our delight
but will not again
though
planted in
the ground
they are
perennial
and multiply
their kind
we kill them
for their
beauty
breed them
against
themselves
so we can
have
life in a
landscape
of death
a fragrance
of
winter
spring
It is true
even the best
would kill
anything
to have life
in their world
though
some
I
believe
would
die
rather
than kill
just
to live
IV
So this
hyacinth
blossoms
and love
fills our house
everyone
including the dog
and Nelly
curled up in
the kitchen
are in a possible
dream of summer
such as only
warm sleep
and fragrance
can provide
while I am
awake thinking
the many ways
you have made
this house
a bit of brightness
when your own thoughts
are shadowed
much of the time
V
Love that
comes in the night
or early in
the morning
flees
at first light
when doubt
beckons
and the mind
questions every
action every
belief become
illusion
sleeping
arms
and legs now
shards of intellect
bits of hair in my eyes
shreds of my own
nakedness
a heart
pounding fear
because I cannot
believe an age old
dream of love
and renewal
could still
be true
If only I
could bow
my head
unthinking
for a while
let my spine
uncoil my
limbs
loosen
a little
maybe then
I could feel
the near
death
a dreaming
hyacinth
allows
VI
And what do I fear
That I need to die
I do not
need to die this
hyacinth saves
my neck from the ax
for a time at least
grows pink in the dark
basement before
being brought to light
where it blooms now
in the frosted pane
It shows me a gentler
birth a gentler
death courts the heart
so we who live and die
in the world of which
we are the instance
day in and day out
may find our way
to withstand
the undoing of night
And so we
force
these hyacinths
to bloom always
and necessarily
ahead of nature’s
call and then
discard them
for the real
spring flowers
So too the
poem
bursts in the dark
awaiting light
RLH:
Hawthorne Farm, Gloucester ON: 1973-02-03, when Leslie was pregnant with Cyrus.
Rev:
Mtn: 2020-06-24-25; 2020-07-12; 2020-07-13; 2021-12-27.
rhe Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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