On the western windowsill,
my daughter has arranged four
small bottles. “I like the sound
of ‘syrup,’” she says, her voice
a loveliness too. Stoppered
with cork, how easy to catch
life that quickens in a stand
of trees, ‘wakening in the cold
of March to sweeten our tongues
as we struggle to recall
how to speak spring. My eyes hold
my long-limbered girl as she drifts
out the door, but inside,
I wish for the winter’s freeze
to stay that spring of sweetness.
About the AuthorFrom August through May, I teach high school English. From June through August, I grow too many tomato plants in my zone 6a garden. Every day, I write—a little more, a little less—the trying being the real measure. Other poems of mine are forthcoming in DASH Literary Journal and The Literary Nest.