In my yard, unsteady, I’ve taken my first steps since October. Winter’s glories abound, and its desolation…
At winter’s feast, I drink the yellow jasmine –
Paint my lips with blood-pink bloom –
Rub my hands with Rose of Mary;
In their rooms, dear pansies flirt and swoon.
At winter’s feast, I touch the veined hydrangea –
Dress my hair with leaves of old –
Drown in sun’s light, close my eyes tight;
In their rooms, dear pansies smile and scream, bold.
At winter’s feast, I shiver with the branches –
Hold their bony hands in mine.
Grey becomes the sky, becomes me.
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