The Unfolding of the Calyx by Nancy Sobanik

The Unfolding of the Calyx

The buds have come,
first the beech then the aspen,
and catkin litter falls everywhere.
I pull it from the cowl
of the windshield,
wipe pollen off the glass;
the back of my sleeve yellow.

They’ll suddenly be gone in a week
as the crabgrass blades its way
through last year’s leaf mold,
parting like the Red Sea.
My own twisted sepals
are just beginning to unwind.

For four years,
a hurricane of death
flung my severed heart
onto stone strewn ground,
trampled the hollowed chambers
into a juiceless plum.

I contemplate the trees-
do they feel relief
at the end of battering
by unobstructed winter winds?
Do they hum a song
only they can hear
when the sap awakens
to flow like ice out on the river?

Trees will snap their leaves open
into green whispering fans.
I gather pale lemon daffodils
into a blue glass vase.
My fist that holds the flower
will unfold, palm open and up,
offering and receiving.
The blush of blood once more
will petal my cheeks.


Nancy Sobanik works as a Registered Nurse, is a poet who lives in Maine, and is active in the Maine Poet’s Society. Her poems have been curated by Triggerfish Critical Review, Sparks of Calliope, and upcoming in Verse-Virtual and the Maine Poet’s Society Stanza.

Leave a Reply