Annadale

February 11, 2014

Annadale

In the town where I grew up,

in the gray, green-shuttered house, our yard

teemed with crocuses in the spring.

Like spearheads or neat rows

of pale pointed teeth, greedy fingers

digging up through soil and snow,

heads of scepters, regal crocuses,

sprouting in unmistakable, glossy,

royal colors—pure eggshell, deep yellow,

lavender and violet—petals growing

thick with secrets, until finally unfolding like dawn

breaking, hungry flower mouths opening

wide. I would tuck the thin,

waxy stems behind my ears as charms against evil,

or make the blossoms a crown and become

the Faerie Queen of Annadale, barefoot and wild,

breath like magic blooming in my chest

as I commanded swarms of pixies and sprites

against the shadows of snap-dragons,

fighting and dancing until falling back

breathless, glowing in the late sunlight, my arms

outstretched, my hands turned skyward,

my toes curling in the cool grass.

And even now in these winter days, these waiting days,

days that wear gray skies and thin light,

I test the air, and watch the ground,

listen for the distant drumming:

the sign that the world is once again

on the cusp of crocuses.