Seven days since the storm
snowed itself out and moved east, and still
the fat clots of white lodge themselves
in the twig forks, held up to the world
to be noticed. I shot it all on film to help
my memory of how cold feels.
Most of all, I had to catch this snow fruit
crotched in place by the black dogwood,
snared by a relentless frost that won’t
let go, won’t give in, even to the sun.
The integrity of the season’s fierce
cold. How rigidly it holds
the winter fruit’s secret crystals,
inviolate, persistent at the heart.
On my dining table, in a wood
bowl, wait the five dried pomegranates
I have saved for a friend. Like me, for now,
decay has passed them by, their red skin
dried to a tough brown leather,
the little teeth of sepals crimped
in a crown of sharp kisses that guard
the secret seeds, dark purses
for juice that will never be spilled.
Where color is spare
Take These Words
God's Act in Acts
Comeback for snowy plover
Dancing in the Cathedral
The Possibilities of Clay
Sonnet for my left hip
The Golden Carp
What I Needed to Do
Mary Considers Her Situation
States of being
The longevity of roots
The Returns of Love
Photos from My Trip
The Songs of Camoapa
The Annunciatory Angel
Psalm for the January Thaw
The chair without distinction
The blue eyeball
Peace on earth
Robin in the Late Afternoon
Catch of the Day
All poems are copyrighted by Luci Shaw.
To be reprinted only by permission of the author.