Your Return

 


















For a Friend Lying in Intensive Care Waiting for Her White Blood Cells
to Rejuvenate After a Bone Marrow Transplant

The jonquils. They come back. They split the earth with
their green swords, bearing cups of light.

The forsythia comes back, spraying its thin whips with
blossom, one loud yellow shout.

The robins. They come back. They pull the sun on the
silver thread of their song.

The irises come back. They dance in the soft air in silken
gowns of midnight blue.

The lilacs come back. They trail their perfume like a scarf
of violet chiffon.

And the leaves come back, on every tree and bush, millions
and millions of small green hands applauding your return.

Barbara Crooker