A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Winter begins it all — not spring that rips through frost, but winter, where last night’s snow leaves a lawn of stars. No stops & starts of bees. No naïve leaves untouched by grief No fear of fire or counterfeit friends. Snow, white bodied bird, painter of silence, dancer who loves the air, reveal the details: let the branches be layers and layers of tree. Tonight I will wake to hear the sound of an owl (hope its call is answered by another – that her answer fills the cavity he lives in) see the moon lay its Templar light over everything even the swing-set in its cold metal. And like the half-frozen stems of reed-grass that struggle through, let us realize snow as defense. Tomorrow the sun will glaze the willow that grows by the river. We can never know what keeps it alive, or what will come next to change ours. Winter, go ahead. Quiet the crickets. The mowers. Lay your weight on the water, crystallize the edges.
Joy Gaines-Friedler is a poet and photographer who lives in Detroit.
Copyright 2020 Joy Gaines-Friedler