The hunt

A poem

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The hunt

Photo by Nikita Turkovich

Some days we wait for fog to lift
to step outside and step towards
what we seek.

I remember a photo and a poem
of a lonely crocus who erupted into view
last year, stunningly too early
for what was to come.

It was sunny, low sun winter bright,
there had not been winter fog,
I do not remember searching that day,
and the crocus was just there.

It has been three days of fog
and I take that step outside
and walk to that winter place
where I was surprised by spring.

But January.
Claw the earth like a dog.
Dig until dirt cakes every crease of my hardened hands.
Reach my arm down the throat of my mother
and pull forward what should have been offered,
what should be offered.

I am standing in a ruinous field,
winter fog enveloping destruction
and my fruitless hunt.

No flower grows here. 

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Thank you for reading! If you are so inclined, leave a comment about what strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read. I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and within a week I will be following up with a Reflection post on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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