I have some exciting news to share… I finally published a poetry collection! After withdrawing from social media and cutting back on a number of creative projects, I found I was able to complete a lifelong dream of becoming a “real” poet.
Instead of waiting for my work to be accepted and published by a literary press or journal, I decided to take advantage of the free self-publishing opportunities available through Amazon and make my debut poetry collection available as a Kindle ebook: Flora Fauna Blood Bone
Spring is not the first whisper of snow on a cold December night. It is not chilly evenings with twinkle lights strung to keep the darkness at bay. It is not pine trees or poinsettia.
Spring is not pajamas with cozy fleece feet. It is not heated blankets or flannel sheets, wool socks, or turtleneck sweaters. It is not ice, newly formed, on barren fields. It is not a winter wonderland.
Spring is not a snowflake. It is not holly wreaths, a shopping list, peppermint, tinsel, or presents under the tree.
Spring is not mature and it is not a ski chalet. It is not your aunt Ned’s hand-knit scarf.
It is not the turning of leaves red, green, and gold. It is not cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie or a football game. It is not cozying up with a book, yoga pants, a cashmere blanket or hot cocoa and a roaring fire.
Spring is not dark or dismal, death or decay. It is not packing up and putting away.
Spring is not asleep.
It does not smolder in the midday sun. It is not lemonade or ice cream or the endless flat white heat of a fairground parking lot. Spring is not a shining swimming pool. It is not sparklers, hot dogs, or red white and blue.
Spring is not to be trusted; it is not a twilight sky. Spring is not a homecoming or a sleek September tan.
It was a stunt we hadn’t practiced that erased my memory at 30 and left me wondering why I was wearing a cheer uniform in the ER
Then there was a doctor who said short and long term amnesia and what was there to do but go home
to a stranger’s apartment with an unknown man who said he was my friend
and showed me pictures of us on the beach, and getting morning coffee
and the one of me with Sal shading her eyes against the sun her eyes the same as mine so I believed him
what made me remember was not a fact but a feeling an intuition of sorrow a space of absence that was memory
when I said I love you it was met with silence
our union was a thing that ended long ago signed and certified a document forgotten
so what is this tenderness that is not love? this compassion from one to the other?
what are we without our memories gathered with intent held in shadow boxes on display
the attic of my mind is empty
we are here now our love is here.
This poem is based on a snippet of an NPR radio show I heard where a woman falls while filming the pilot of a TV drama and ends up having total amnesia. She had divorced her husband but has no recollection of it, and he ends up caring for her during her recovery.