By Claudia Hollander-Lucas
It’s technically winter, but love and spring are in the air. These poems are both about thresholds.
Winter
I am not dreaming—
yet I am elsewhere
maybe with the late moon
outside this cold window—
clumps of oatmeal cloud
move slowly west against the tide—
a pulse of cotton reflects
the feather’d candy ring
that surrounds her—
a chariot most celestial
I am not dreaming —
this frosted disc
this gentle sleigh
and all the rest
who leisurely glide
into the long
the almost —
threshold
of spring.
I Love Spring
actually
late winter
the aching strength
of lime green blades
crocuses
simple and brave
edible butter buds
Bravest of all
followed by everyone
else
We pedal into sun’s
tipping point
head first
