Spring in Snow
It is in the midst of cruel December
That cynicism springs forth
Lush, verdant and fruitful.
As people sit
Firmly fastened in front of computers and televisions,
Their pale, two-dimensional illumination
A vicious imitation of the golden glow
Of which we have been deprived,
The trite uniqueness of each falling flake
Is regarded with the same appreciation
Held by a prisoner for the peculiarities of each bar of his cell
While mercantile endorsements
Perform their annual joyless Yuletide jig
Complete with sullenly cheery music.
Indifference plods with a purpose across the pavement
On feet uncomfortably shoved into boots
And sometimes wielding a shovel.
My own feet angrily railed against the bus-stop sidewalk
On this particular day.
I forfeited the ice-block bench on this occasion,
Preferring to crush my feet into the ground
Than to risk cryogenesis by the unfriendly seat.
I was waiting for the next vessel to drift in on a tide of noxious diesel
And take me home
So that I could put cables through my ears
And stare blankly into a vividly opaque window;
Fingers performing a well-choreographed dance
While I wrapped myself in warm, gas-heated euthanasia.
As the bench reclined behind me,
She sat down upon it like a ghost.
Slight and spritish.
Silky black strands dance in brave escape
From their woolen armour
And guard green isles floating on white seas.
Where have I seen her?
This person so maddeningly, forgettably familiar?
A breath of persimmon and greenery.
She extends forth a creamy hand.
The snow eats the vibrant blood as it leaks from her wrist.
Seized by panic,
I leap from my station,
A lifesaving scarf in my hand.
Hers presses to my chest.
Her pale-sunrise lips move to my ear.
"Wait and see." She says.
"Read between the drear to find what you seek:
"That which you remember and yet have forgotten."
The vital stream returns to its tributary by a volition of its own.
Did I faint at this surreality?
Did I go into shock by it and return to my abode in an opiate ambulation?
Did it take place at all?
I awoke at home, seated in my parlour
And watered by the melted rime.
For weeks after,
I would, with expectation and intrigue,
Await her arrival at the same stop,
Search for the silky black strands playing in the crowd,
I even sought her in vain through my nocturnal oneiric haze.
Indeed, she must have been a spectre,
Either of our world or that of my brain.
Nevertheless, this I know is true:
I did feel her gentle hand against my panicked heart
And her delicate voice still echoes in my ears.
It is Spring now, and still my memory of her persists
As does my recollection what she had to tell me.
Her whisper is in the snow-melt water
And her eyes cry joyful tears from icicles.