The Catkin Edge

Catkins swell the tips of alder 

and red-fringed auras of riverside maple 

soften the bare edge of winter.

 

A new breeze lifts the stale grip 

of late-stage February. Deep within 

the dead brown layers, spirits gather. 

I wish these days would hurry on – 

my mother’s presence pierces years to conjure sun 

and wrap the world in warmer tones. 

And I hear his gentle rejoinder, 

that faux-scold timbre, tinged with a twinkle – 

Don’t wish your only life away. 

Dad was the ever-enduring hills. She, 

an effervescent air-kiss, the smiles and dreams 

of springs to come. Now both are gone. 

I throw on a warm layer, 

zip inside my black hoodie, and huddle 

out back in a broken pool of light, 

wishing with mother for everwarmth 

and winter’s end, but feeling my father’s calm 

as if from distance. Stay 

and wash my soul in cold breeze 

beneath the bare-branch blackbird tree 

on catkin edge of wintertime. 

Winter flock of grackles and red-winged blackbirds

Riverside Maple, March 2014