Sometimes it snows
in April. Sometimes
it’s too soon
for any new
life to begin. Better
before anything stirs. Better
to be an addendum
to winter than a mutation
to spring.
Day Poems
Accidental Beauty
If you can’t think
of anything, put the cap back
on. Don’t let it dry up
for good. To be
too poised is poison. That opening
in the woods
where you veered
off the path is the true
hinge to it. Don’t forget
to swing without occasion.
This Year’s Color
Radiant orchid
throughout each season—even now
when rain can’t quite
wash away the most hardened dirty
snow. Somewhere the temperature
drops just enough at night
before a warming settles in. Somewhere
someone sings,
“California Dreamin’”
to coax things along. Someone
somewhere is still searching
for a word that rhymes
with orange.
First Day
Freezing
fog come morning.
Then unbelievable
sunshine shakes the river and falls
awake.
My New England Roots
Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray
days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic
a skipping stone’s
throw away
at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams
of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own
drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts
call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t
always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.
George Of Course: Another Cinquain
I weep
each time I hear
my favorite Beatle
who has been gone too long—we don’t
forget.
November 22, 1963: Where Were You?
Fifty years. Before
my time—barely. I was born
into a country
in mourning. Would never
know an innocence
once claimed. Never
know a world without
that eternal flame. Would never
hear that voice, that particular brand
of Boston accent live.
Sixteen grief-stained days
shy of being able to say:
“I was there.”
February 14
The date
rings a bell
in her head. That pattern
of flowers spilled on the street was
heart-shaped.
Toughened or Tempered
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Odds Are
A city club awning becomes
the abominable snowman’s mouth
full of icicle dagger teeth. I don’t want to
wake the beast. I walk uncovered,
keep a safe distance
from the fringe. Let snow fall
on my head instead. I don’t believe in
monsters but know my beliefs
have nothing to do with it—winter
risks, or getting struck by lightning come spring.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 