Angry late winter wind blows
apart my image
of you—a figure
with feet firmly planted, set apart
from the others. A bed
of needles for any season, a nest
of thought that could incubate
lady slippers to outgrow
their endangerment—
it’s time. Time to cup
my hands into an annual
vessel to catch the belief
again. It leaks, its surface
has become cracked
and stained. Still, each year
I return to the O horizon.
These patterns that define
my fingers—could they be
next? I wonder if I can forget
myself for another spell to hold
that essence of things this time around.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 