The crocus, first in my yard to bloom, purple
with tiny orange kernel—blossom within blossom.
Ground saturated from a foot of snow three weeks ago.
Now, magnolia—white feathered with pink stripes;
furry gray-green sepal they open from; the way sun filters
through slim petals. Spring’s early yellows: witch hazel,
forsythia, daffodils, meadow buttercups. Air fertile, dense
with pollen and birdsong. Trails, a mudfest. Yesterday, on the first
anniversary of my mother’s passing, I find three socks fallen
in the narrow space between washer and stationary tub. Two mine,
lost a year or more, the other a white anklet, my mother’s name,
Vivian, printed in permanent black ink when she moved
to a nursing home. Bone-white, so soft in my palm—a dove.
March 16, 2021
Karen George is author of Swim Your Way Back, A Map and One Year, Where Wind Tastes Like Pears, Caught in the Trembling Net, and the collaborative Delight Is a Field. She won Slippery Elm’s 2022 Poetry Contest, and her award-winning short story collection, How We Fracture, was released by Minerva Rising Press in 2024. Her poetry appears in The Ekphrastic Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Lily Poetry Review, and Poet Lore. Her website is https://karenlgeorge.blogspot.com/.