Early Spring

Sonya Wohletz

Early Spring arrives like a razor
to gut the clouds, their fluid light
dripping along the seams of shadows. 

In the garden the red soil pulses,
holding in its fist
tough knobs,
the bulbs of an old life. 

Eventually it must also relinquish this
to the wide plate of the sun. 

The energy required is enormous. 

Bleats incessantly, though
goes on ignored, as do
most important actions. 

And yet the night freezes arrive
new and dangerous—exacting their
bite into the walls of the house,
the jugular pipes seizing, stuttering
predictions about
the family cycle inside.

In early spring
it feels somehow useless
to thaw.

Time leaks in from behind
dusty panes of rage
and stalls on the sills.

Only at this moment (and no other)
does ritual present itself as decision:
whether one
takes the bladed crocus in hand
or is rather taken under its purple flag. 

The colorlessness below an outcome
that signals the
preparation of the garden
for new children, new autumns.

Above:
mother and son are still whirring together. 

The breadth of her armspan
articulates the limits of her imagination. 

What she describes as a means to comfort—
the light returning northward,
the crocuses blooming beneath the apple tree,
the ice, thawing into blurred puddles—

these, he experiences only as an expression of the superficial.

One day he will circle beyond that embrace.

In the reflection
of his dark eyes—
the promise of her burial.

But always there is the procession,
the bright wings of air,
the sensation of weight taking up again
the arthritic argument of a new return. 

One sun closer to my death,
my voice devises
fuller colors as adversary. 

Watch, it rises.

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Sonya Wohletz

Sonya Wohletz is a writer whose work brings together image, history, and landscapes. Her work has appeared in Latin American Literary Review, Revolute, Roanoke Review, and others. Her first collection of poetry, One Row After/Bir Sira Sonra, was published by First Matter Press in 2022. She is a Pushchart Prize Nominee.