We should plant crocuses, you said last fall.
I remember shrugging, thinking,
their tender light is too subtle for me,
after acres of endless days steeped in darkness.
But still, I wished I’d suggested it, instead of you.
Why? you’d ask, if I told you this.
And I’d say, It’s too complicated to explain.
Copouts: I have an arsenal of them.
When the forsythia bloomed a haphazard landscape
of burnished flowers, yellow, ecstatic, I felt nothing at all.
When a tepid sun finally silvered the back yard,
I could only yearn for summer, over blown and potent.
And, when spruce boughs were tied with robins, finches
instead of balancing birds of snow, I listened,
and was nearly unwrapped by the silence
of wanting what I couldn’t have.
I wish I could summon the somnolence of bees
drunken, hedonistic in their hives to seduce the lilies,
the delphinium, the floppy petaled poppy into bloom.
I’m tired of waiting for their silhouettes to fray in fading shadows
of the cottage garden. I’m tired of waiting for seeds,
scattered by birds and an indecisive breeze to land
where you never expected them to grow.
Virginia Boudreau hails from a sea side community on the South shore of Nova Scotia where she can often be found on the beach. In her “other life” she is a Learning Disabilities Specialist with her local school board. Her poetry has appeared in numerous international literary magazines and anthologies.