Melody Wilson



Finally, I concede as winter
descends, its dome a gaseous cloche
with clear boundaries. I
pull my sweater close, add a quilt to
the bed. The trees absolve their
fading leaves as I forage the pantry for
trappings of peasantry.
I boil things. I put things
away. Things are falling all around me.


At the last possible moment, a
daffodil appears, impudent and late.
The world is wet and moss-slick. I
recall strawberries and begin to
yearn. The evolutionary pageant – crocus then
hyacinth, tulip then pansy – fails to
dislodge my winter bitterness. Then
dahlias appear and I grow
contrite. The world is
beautiful and dense. I scatter
sowbugs on the basement shelf
as I inventory jars.


Boysenberries startle me. After the
fireworks, I hear they are gone. Blackberries
remain, for now. There are always blueberries.
The sky opens and the sun presses its
fingers into the world like dough. Warmth
smooths the edges and shines my skin.
I long to lie on the pavement, a lazy dog, until
first one side then the other burns. I
mean to do things.
Box elder beetles model
lethargy. I remain one step


Something is coming. Scented
persimmon and crimson, it blows in on
memory. It is melancholy and
luscious. I feel more than taste it on my
tongue. Spiders take refuge in the
bathroom, avoiding eye contact.
I compose myself, relinquish industry and
cultivate hope. The beginning braids itself
to the end.