Promised more snow, here’s a winter poem from three years ago:
It’s that slow time of year for the gardener.
Waking to hard frosts that transform
even the weeds to Jack Frost beauty,
I see that my tarragon has taken a beating,
but the rough, turned, new flower bed
is magically benefiting
from the ice that crowns each lump of soil.
And, just back from my mother’s funeral,
grief seizes my heart again in its fierce icy grip.
Like my garden in winter,
all I can do is wait it out
and hope that one day
the frost will have gone
and my heart will not have withered like the tarragon
but softened and fined down
like the good earth of my flower beds.
And maybe, come summer,
there will be roses.
Dorothy M. Stewart 11.1.09
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