My Mother Reborn as Forsythia

by Rose Strode

Budburst. The crackling wands ignite

spangled in splayed zygodactylous

booms:

Winter’s

done.

We won’t dwell on the way overnight lows and ice reliquaried spring

forsythia’s twigs freckled fingers of an un/known saint shrined w/in

crystal her shrivelled flowers: yellow ragments of a birthday balloon shocked

apart by a sudden snap of cold. No! Forget

I mentioned it! Forget everything

and instead let’s watch forsythia pop pop pop!

IknowIknowIknow it’s invasive but look at the way what was barren and lonesome bursts

with joy this is what joy looks like

don’t tell me the plant can’t

feel joy.

Or that my mother

isn’t here.

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Rose Strode is a poet, essayist, rehabilitator of overgrown gardens, and naturalist. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Wild Roof, Amethyst Review, Hare’s Paw, New Ohio Review, Terrain.org, and The Eco Poetry Anthology: Volume II from Trinity University Press. When not writing or helping others with their writing, she wanders around in the woods with her dog. Read more of her work at rosestrode.com