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.