Winter Poem

The wisteria is bare and brown
Twisted and turning, it waits
For more warmth and some mystic trick of
Light
Before it will chance going green.
The sun is going down through
The naked pecans now and
I worked in the yard today
Digging up sod
Which had been placed there
Months ago
As part of a project for another piece of property we own
It had already put down roots and the weeds had
Thrust their green selves up through it
The betony and dollar weed, their thick white
Roots snap when you pull them
And I don't care how careful I was,
They are going to take themselves back to that other property
But leaving plenty living here, believe me.

I went and packed up my costumes at the Opera House
Sally, Marion, Nancy, Esther, Judith
Their clothes and their hair and jewelery and handbags and shoes
All in a bin I'll take with me when we do the play again.
"Are you having any after-effects?" inquired Jack as he was taking down the set
And I said,
"Well, I've felt like crying all day."
"But beyond that, all is well?" he asked, chuckling a little.
Kathleen washed the prop dishes and
We wrapped them in white paper and set them in a cooler
To carry with us to Milton next month where we'll do the play
In a high school auditorium.
And oh, how we are looking forward to that!
Last night's audience was insanely happy
Probably drunk, who cares?
They laughed at everything, they got all the jokes,
They applauded way too often.
We loved them and wanted to kiss them all good-night.
At the very least.

Yes, the wisteria is brown
But the magnolia is bright, glossy green
And I know that even as I sit here
Watching the sun go down
It is cooking up some amazing blossoms
That will open in April
Creamy white, bigger than my head
And will smell of lemon and are as precious as babies
To the mother tree, I can only imagine.
The wisteria, too, is thinking about the way
It will become green with tiny, twisting leaves
That open and unfold
And make way for the purple blossoms it will bear
Smelling of perfume which enchants and intoxicates the bees.

I wonder where the bees are.
Waiting for the stage manager to nod
And whisper
Time
To make their appearance.
As we all do.

The timing and trick of light
The hefting of hunks of brown grass and dirt
The packing of wigs in their bag
The velvets and sequins in their bin
The subtle magnolia
The assertive, bawdy wisteria
Waiting for their cues

All waiting
And the birds sing
And tell me
Wait, wait, wait
It will all come around again.
Taste the air
And you can tell
It will all come around again.



And the setting sun shines gold
On the moss-bearded oaks
Another trick of light
Another magic light-streamed flight
Day pours itself into the night
And the silver moon will rise
Full-bellied
The sight
Will give me patience
To wait