Forcing Forsythia in January
Ruth Z. DemingThe cold spell has snapped
for a day or two. I am sick
of being cold. Of shivering.
Of having layers of covers
atop me before I sleep. Of losing
books, the remote, and socks among
the Jurassic layers. The furnace
bellows like a drowning man.
In my beret and red gloves,
I wander across the crunchy
autumn leaves to the yellow
forsythia bush in the back yard.
There they are! Tiny yellow buds.
I clip a few stalks. Pop them
in a vase and await the early
dawn of Faire April.
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