In January, I Rearrange My Bookshelves
by Elizabeth Wickland
I don’t mean to, but something stirs,
a settling beneath the snow, and I know
if there are to be flowers in spring
the soil must be nourished now,
in the quiet, in the still, in the cold.
It is a slow process, snow collecting
nitrogen on its tongue, holding it there
until it melts like letters on a page
clustering phonemes into words,
into thoughts, into whole volumes
that would spill over, run off,
in the warmth of months to come.
But in the cold, they gather, calling me
to stand before disheveled spines,
restoring order where haste has left
its mark. What makes one snowflake
stand out crisp and clear against the pane
when the moment is just right
for me to see it? I gather it into my palm
to melt, fertilize my depleted imagination,
tend the sleeping seeds beneath the soil.
No longer disheveled, I leave the room
with six de-shelved books, stacked
in the shape I hope my soul will take
when the flowers bloom in spring.
