The Year We All Got Cancer
Winter stayed.
The April rain so cold
it left blisters of ice
on an earth
as scarred and pockmarked
as a landscape mired in war.
We waited through the freeze and thaw
for some sign from the recalcitrant earth--
anxiety growing with each passing day.
The sun was of little use,
peeking indifferently
through the skeletal clouds,
as if late for an appointment
on another planet.
We had become
a shivering muddle--
a people resigned to winter,
when we woke one day
to wild things bursting.
Fields of dandelion
and mustard greens and,
in the most desolate spot of all,
a stand of wild asparagus.
first published in Word Fountain
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