Maybe the gray mimics the colors of heaven
and the gummed-up tulips trying to bloom
are the flowers that line the walkways
of Eden after a sleet rain squall.
The crocuses that don’t open
are too stoic for spring and the rubble
of branches that thrashed in the wind.
Maybe we keep hanging on to the squawks
of blue herons and their awkward flip-flop
take-off because it’s the new dance move in heaven.
Maybe this slow unrusting, this breathing
of lost moths, this scraping of winter
prepares us for wrinkle-free faces, and aches
that don’t ache, bells that don’t numb our eardrums
in heaven. Maybe the nip and gnaw of rain
and the mossy flatstones past our peach trees
are happier than heaven and the blackberry canes
that corkscrew around trees in the sunshine
are gleeful if not greedy, the way those who die
too soon want to be when they’re done.
About the Author
John Davis is the author of Gigs, Guard the Dead and The Reservist. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and Terrain.org. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea and performs in several bands.
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