Saturday, April 26, 2008


Yesterday I had this post on flowers all written out, but Blogger wasn't letting me upload a photo. So I was going to put the post off until today, and try my luck then.

Today it is snowing.

The flowers I was going to post about are still blooming, through the snow, but now I feel more like posting poetry. This is a poem by Susan Ludvigson, taken from the anthology, "Vital Signs: Contemporary American Poetry from the University Presses," 1989.


Imagine that pure
melting of snow in Wisconsin
so that when it's gone, the earth
underneath is raw and damp,
needing sun, seed, any kind
of promise. But more snow comes
before the final thaw,
and this goes on, over and over,
so that in February, March,
you think the world may never
be green.
When you look out the picture window,
after your spirits have risen one last
slow time, old grass looks
as if it might leap to life.
Then you see those large flakes
floating down, and you weep,
past belief. It can happen
through April, hope going white
and silent again.

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