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Landscape bricks
sit in the trunk of my car,
ready to be unloaded,
stacked at the edge of a garden.
Snow falls by the inch,
daffodils wear tight scarves,
huddle against the storm.
Fragile necks of tulips
heavy with buds
quake under the white guillotine
that falls from the roof.
Ice is long gone
from Lake Superior
but I am still waiting
for the day I can put
the snow shovel away.
From Heartsick (Whisper Tree Press, 2021).
This poem first appeared as part of the Silver Birch Press "I Am Waiting" series (2021).
Used here with permission.
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Jan Chronister, now retired from teaching writing, is the author of three full-length poetry collections and nine chapbooks; the latest are The Book of Eunice, about her mother, and Land of Cotton, Land of Snow, the fourth in her annual series of "year in review" chapbooks. Gardening keeps Jan "grounded", as she puts it, and often provides inspiration for her poems. Jan and her husband of 50+ years divide their time between far north Wisconsin and South Georgia.
          
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paradea:
Love this!!!
Posted 03/20/2022 09:04 AM
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Janet Leahy:
The white guillotine falling from the roof gives me the chills, but this is Wisconsin, must keep that shovel where we can find it. Enjoyed your poem Jan.
Posted 03/19/2022 07:37 PM
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Lori Levy:
Especially like the last stanza.
Posted 03/19/2022 04:56 PM
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njc:
Great poem, Jan! That third stanza is a masterpiece in itself.
Posted 03/19/2022 11:28 AM
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Michael:
In downstate Illinois we've had a couple of days into the low 70s. Pretty rare for the month of March. Your poem brings on wistful feelings for spring to go full bloom.
Posted 03/19/2022 09:26 AM
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Larry Schug:
Best to keep the snow shovel handy, but the garden tools are calling from the shed. We northerners have got to be the most patient of all. Well said, Jan.
Posted 03/19/2022 07:42 AM
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