by Janice Fitzpatrick-Simmons
I lived inside a Shakespearian winter; malcontent,
agreeing to a poverty of the soul. And thus agreed,
what followed was anger and regret. My voice rang
from the dark glen of my dwelling; raised
and fell to nothing.
But a day came, as it does, when the light
was more than the dark. Snow was on the mountain
yet growth lifted its strong old head
to daffodils along roads and by–ways
so that I longed toward the sun; forgave everyone,
even myself. Inside Schubert’s The Trout — waterfalls
tumbled to streams, streams to rivers,
and me somehow still alive
And of course friends came with their sound of laughter,
the clink and ring of glass that became song.
Fires were lit, of course they were; they shimmered
and glowed under the roof,
under the Clai Mor Realtai, The Compostela,
The Milky Way.