Sandy Longhorn

Self-portrait: April 

Dear S — 

All week the small bushes pushed
out their new leaves, splashes
of bright yellow-green crowding
the low hills, breaking apart winter’s
cold patina.  News of M—’s disease
last Christmas settled on my heart
like snow, the kind that stays.
This thaw is hard-pressed to clear
the ice floes in my veins. 

Today, I watch from my window
as buds appear on the willows
lining the creek.  I’m enclosing
one new growth, still warm, almost furry.
I lick it like a stamp, paste it to the page
still green, wondering how it will reach you.

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