In late winter, when Hope thaws
And cumbersome Ice grows weary,
Impeded by glass—surrounded by wood,
Longing to leave sight so dreary.
Knowing no degree nor warmth,
I glimpsed, robbing its strange vision
Whether snow or sleet, I queried
Unsure, hanging its indecision.
Hoping it not Winter’s final complaint,
I grasped its faint forms.
Capturing those bantam saints,
Knowing no longer to mourn.
For Spring displayed brightest feather
A plumage in storm of white weather
Its pearl petals swung without collision
Revealing shaken snow globe—
Spring’s unsheathed provision.
Painting swirls in Gogh-like fashion
With papal steeple standing erect
An image arresting one’s passion
Making one ‘surredly Elect.
But doubt creeped in this sordid mind
Shivering at thought of snow
Though birds sang Springtide songs
I felt a-seasonal vertigo.
What if I could not know?
Whether snowfall or petals flow?
Being out of season,
What reason ought I need
Making petals into snow—
A blizzard from a grove?
Ought I be heavy cladden
In this wintry mix?
Unshodding hefty boots;
Removing lent crucifix?
Or should skin lie bare,
Lightly clad without despair?
For Winter’s black coat
Twas’ no longer in the air.
But these feet entered its scene
Walking into Elysian grove.
Warm winds lifting its wings
Permitting thoughts not below
Grained trees, spattered with green,
Buzzing bees, and young whistling man;
Scattered weeds, yellowed with pollen,
And swift winds forging its plan.
Looking nigh, glimpsing its source at last—
White blossom suspended there.
As thoughts weighed with gloom
Gently wafted waywardly away.
We long to know,
Who brushed this Gogh.
Or, shall we ever return
To this Grove/Snow?
Answers, I have not
For seeds I have not sown.
For I know only not
That It is not known.
To glimpse that not Unknown.
And sow seeds yet Unsown.
Photo Credit: Christian Salwa.