At the Edge of Hope
Kersten Christianson
I want to pen a note about spring.
Not the dead alder, rain after rain after
rain despair of it, but the rose
gold sheen of storm having passed,
dissipating at the knife-sharp edge of outer coast
where blue herons and mallards frequent
the estuary’s ebb and flow.
I want the medicine of tender greens
the tangle of blooming branch,
squall of cherry blossoms adrift
under patches of blue-sky canopy
with supple heart and thoughts of you,
I want the spring that snaps winter’s back.
