MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

Forcing Forsythia in January

Ruth Z. Deming

The 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.