I wrote this just now, after coming in from a walk.
Frost, Red
Sun is not the only bleach of nature
the green of the raspberry leaf is almost gone
fast faded last night by our third frost.
The first night of frost hit high
the edges of plants and trees, burned black
or scorched white,
but still a steady green
held on. So recently close, the sun must stay
just one more day, maybe another
each day of waiting, green gathering food down
into the roots, readying for winter
The second night of frost hit harder, lower
gone basil, gone tomato, gone okra, gone cosmos.
Mint in its sure bed stayed green, and oregano
and raspberry. Those hardier plants.
The third night of frost edged this leaf in white
the pale green that was yesterday’s emerald is soft
against my face, removed from its red and thorned cane
my winter rough fingers barely pricked.
Each day I think it is almost done,
but my body sends forth reminders of what I lost
and am still losing. A season of blood that began
with what you helped plant into me, returns anew
after your entry last night into my body.
As if I could not go one day with only pleasure,
pleasure free of grief’s reminder.
Gone baby, gone May, gone crawling by autumn.
And still I hold onto my love for red, clad head to toe.
Though, I seem to grab any green thing
these days. Green leaf, green blanket, green cloth to warm my neck.
I fill my pockets with seeds
pull acorns from under my car, they roll together,
so constant I forget them, reach in my pockets for warmth, curl fingers around
the round hard things, smooth, with just that one sharp place.
Nothing will grow without the reminder of pain,
the need to shatter before burgeoning.
