I want to wrap myself in my green sweater against the
wind once more
and stand again at the green gate of the farm across the
road.
I want to be warm in wool that holds September’s
weathered green,
and be the yew tree in the churchyard that spreads
branches, evergreen, over death.
If green unfurls again from gaunt branches that now
scrape the gray sky
and the geese return from their greener, southern climes
when Winter’s passed,
I can hope that green grows not only in envy’s shade, in
vines that thrive on stone,
and twining into crevices, weave green peril for the
strong wall.
I will clip the English ivy spilling from its brick bed
beside the green door
and prune green holly to wind into wreaths for crowning
Winter’s entrance.
But black-green cedars, living, shudder under their
white blankets,
While other greens lie deep-down sleeping, smothered in
the earth.
Leave me at the green gate in the stone fence, and I can
climb the stile and wander back to N------, across the field where beneath snow, Winter wheat sprouts green.
WinterGreen was first published in Echoes of the Ozarks Volume V.