When the cruellest month consumes
the remains of Old Man Winter,
I sniff the soil for to-be blooms
and spring-dream of petrichor.
I gossip with dragon’s blood
and smirk wickedly at passion fruit,
when the cruellest month kisses earth
and snow melts under the touch.
With T. S. Eliot in my bag,
I escape to Unreal City, wishing
Stetson’s garden to sprout
in the cruellest month.
Process Note: I’ve borrowed many bits from “Unreal City”, my favorite part of “The Waste Land”, by T. S. Eliot. I’m including a link to “The Teacher”, by Hedgewitch, because I’ve thought about the poem enough times, since I read it, to wonder if I’ve pinched a feeling or three from it (shhh… don’t tell Hedge). The format loosely follows “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”, by Wallace Stevens (minus ten stanzas, obviously). I swiped the idea from a prompt offered by Heaven, at The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads…
linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads