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.
