Marilyn Baszczynski

Long ago you planted bulbs for spring.
There, just by the front walk,
crocuses push up purple through
glistening patches of white.

You watch every morning
from your window, motionless.
Do you see beyond those panes
grimy frame in need of paint?

In your stillness
what deeply hidden do you discover?

Family forgotten, surroundings unseen,
you sit in your winter grays with
little orange pills to erase tumultuous
thought in a white haze.

But your garden trembles where
last year’s petunias and zinnias
dissolved into the dirt. You
feel the perennials growing--

delphinium, foxglove, monarda.
They wait for you to open
the door, step outside, breathe
in the vernal air.