Squished banana adornes the counter,
turning formica to quartz,
sparkling, innocence like the eyes of infants.
A vase is filled,
broccoli blooms buttery
and the cilantro bolts to corriander,
tiny white flowers like lace.
Stalks of swiss chard, their deep red veins
and ruffling green leaves stand supportive
at the bouquet’s back
and the mint waits to be noticed.
Headed for laundry, I pass through the kitchen,
wipe up the abandoned fruit
and wonder about the remaining scent unseen.
When my babies are grown, explorers in the wild world,
how will I see love?
the cut herbs and harvested vegetables
like an aura in the full kitchen.
When the empty bedrooms gape,
radical gratitude must be my first nature.
Then the absence will be as abundance,
the overflow of my blessing cup.
My girls bring flowers
they pick from around our brick house,
sprigs of lavender, blooms of crysanthemum,
leaves of weigela. I fill the clear glass jar
with indigo, orange, and burgundy.
Like God on my sill it sits,
gifts from gifts.
This winter lasts, but our time moves steadily from its first unfolding,
and we find ourselves in the already but not yet
of the journey. Green plants push through dirt
beneath the frozen snow. Sunlight shines through windows
covered with a long winter’s filmy grime. We wait for warmth
and wait for wisdom. We are in Easter’s Advent, praying, listening.
The cardinals have returned to the barren forsythia, looking, flitting
from branch to twig to ground, searching.
Perhaps we are a nesting pair, arriving, looking, searching,
putting all energy into choosing, collecting, building, and then,
hoping. What will this next spring surprise us with? A lush garden,
a field of wildflowers? A new truth?
For now silence may fall with the snow
while we remain steadfast and full of hope.