Dogwoods
for Judy
They are no dream. They are a dream come true.
These twigs, so red against the April snow,
nestle with pussy willows soft and grey.
These two embody harmony on a day
enflamed by public fear and private woe.
Their gentle forms uplift and bring to view
the memory of a friend who came to dine
just last month, who knocked when twilight fell,
who carried in these wands of wood and willow
cradled in her arm, tied up in yellow
paper, newsprint, yellow ribbon. I could tell
they came from her garden, at a time when mine
was frozen, mud-brown, glyph of brittle grief.
I exclaimed, then set them in a square vase,
four-sided, like the creamy bracts that frame
each cluster of tiny golden blooms, too tame,
I think, to call a flower. In any case,
that night, the slender red was not in leaf
but formed a backdrop for the silver show
of fuzzy nubbins shaped like kitten paws.
Today—Ta-da!—a dazzle of bright green
crowns every dogwood twig like a young queen—
Persephone, perhaps, who scorns applause,
yet yearly melts my heart, as well as snow.
Leslie Schultz
Today’s poem sprang from a recent gift, as you see. My friend, Judy, also keeps sled dogs, which had not occurred to me until just now, making the gift of dogwood all the more appropriate. Looking at these images, I am glad that the vase was made by a local artist, the late Charles Halling. I plan to plant these magic wands–pussy willow and dogwood–in my own garden when the time is right, after last night’s snow is no longer even a memory.
