To become spring means accepting the risk of winter.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Manon, Dancer
To become spring I accept
the risk of blooming only
plastic microspheres.
Made in the name of health
and squeezed from tube
to faucet to drain to stream
to open ocean to shores
and bird gullet, the wheeze
of beak and claw, the unfood.
I forget, have already
forgotten to cut pop rings,
to bring my cloth bags to the store,
I love the smell of unraked leaves
whether or not they bring
the bees. My boughs
may freeze before I bud.
I accept the chance
of snow, which might
blanket my best efforts.
Just like last year,
I’m so last year. I accept
that endless schmaltz
is made in my name, sometimes
by me. Who else is responsible
for this mess, these petals?
Every yard on my street is full
of blow up snow globes
and candy wrappers
and aging equipment
whose only job is to cut,
to dominate, to destroy.
I accept soon nobody will
be able to see the stars, still
in their stay-fresh wrappers.
Make my make-and-take
poems from glue sticks
and glitter shakers. Sorrow
isn’t sold in limited supplies,
nor messy beauty, spilled or shredded.
Sometimes – may it be
mostly, please –
shared before we use it up.
—
Sarah Ann Winn’s first book, Alma Almanac won the Barrow Street Book Prize, judged by Elaine Equi. She is also the author of five chapbooks, most recently, Ever After the End Matter. Her writing has appeared in Five Points, Massachusetts Review, Nashville Review, Quarterly West, Smartish Pace, and elsewhere. She’s the founder of Poet Camp, a creative community where she leads online classes, jumpstarts and cozy writing retreats. Find her at http://poetcamp.com.
