Winter tricks you into thinking
it’s the only certainty. Yesterday:
stark. Tomorrow: cold and gray.
Transformation? No such thing.
Sometimes branches writhe and wring
out a gleam, then hush, as if to unsay
it. You wonder if it’s possible
to change. Then, one morning, wings.
How ridiculous. Flower snouts essay
upward, unfold, and babble away
their scent and softness, unstinting.
You wonder if it’s possible.
Lesley Wheeler’s new books are her fifth poetry collection, The State She’s In, and her first novel, Unbecoming. Her work appears in Ecotone, Crab Orchard Review, The Common, and other magazines, and she is Poetry Editor of Shenandoah.
Also by Lesley Wheeler (see all)
- Gran Torino Gigan - June 5, 2020
- Even Wheels Have Edges - February 9, 2020