by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

The days warm

And the sweet sap of gratitude

Rises in my veins.

The days warm

And the ache of longing

Melts

Into an ache of humility

That I

Even I

Could be so blessed.

I have no agency over the warming of the days.

They roll in on capricious currents

Bent by whims

Of wandering jet streams

Touch me

Tease me

Run away

Then one day

Linger long enough to stir that rising hope

Swelling

Effusing

Squeezing from my pores

Dripping into buckets

Soon so full

That to carry them

Is to slosh their sweetness

Along the path

Onto a welcoming ground

And yet still bountiful enough

To circulate within me

To reach my budding branches

To nourish new leaves

Lush with growth

That paint fresh hues

Inside the lines of a once bleak

Once colorless

Landscape.

No, my choice

Only

Is my attention:

To bow my head

Against the angry onslaught 

Of winter’s winds,

Or turn my face

Toward a glittering sun

And appreciate the tender kiss

Of its warming rays.