Patricia Horn O'Brien

The Winter’s Wife

October 9, 2018

It will be years before I understand

failure. The sun’s last rage

in the winter trees. My yard

is a failure of field. It is small

and poorly tended. Years before

this hard kernel of worry

rises to a truer height, I can learn

to make shade with my palms,

but I cannot learn to unmoor my want.

I want wild roots to prosper

an invention of blooms, each unknown

to every wise gardener. If I could be

a color. If I could be a question

of tender regard. I know crabgrass

and thistle. I know one algorithm:

it has nothing to do with repetition

or rhythm. It has the route from number

to number (less to more, more

to less), a map drawn by proof,

not faith. Unlike twilight, I do not

conclude with darkness. I conclude.

 

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