THERE ARE NO ANGELS HERE
A March nor’easter has dumped more than a foot
of wet, heavy snow on our homes, blocked
roads, brought down power lines, left us trapped
in the dark. Trees bend and crack, struggle
to remain upright. The snow winks,
a casanova seducing us to believe this pure white
is innocent. For years, I’ve been watching it fall:
the storm that rains bullets on brown babes
strips the beauty from vibrant flowers
drowns the cries from the hungriest mouths while
lone wolves are left to roam the night forest.
Snow piles on the window ledge
fogs the view
and already the rose bushes
that took several seasons to finally take root
are crushed under this weight of whiteness.
So are we.
It’s our time to claim a greening
grow thorns and unapologetically bloom
usher fragrant petals to waft in spring air.
The sun will scaffold the thaw.
CHRISTINE TAYLOR, a multiracial English teacher and librarian, resides in her hometown Plainfield, New Jersey. She serves as a reader and contributing editor at OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Modern Haiku, apt, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Rumpus, and The Paterson Literary Review, among others. She can be found at www.christinetayloronline.com.