“Early Spring” and “Equinox”

Cory Brown

Ithaca College
cbrown@ithaca.edu

 

Early Spring

 

It is early evening of a spring late,
very late in coming–so late, in mid-April
the deep crescents and parabolas of snow
in the yard, resisting even an imperceptible
slide down the subtle slopes on a chilly
gray evening, seem something new grass
may simply latch onto to grow on
and carpet right over. And the child’s
swing in the yard, and the clothesline too,
are moving back and forth in a way which,
to me, represents a motion seemingly knowing.
Like someone slowly rocking–toes, heels,
toes, heels–someone who’s been standing
a long while, say, in a cold snow waiting
for a bus, foothills of the Ozarks or Rockies
in the distance, implacable and unforgiving
as they block the early evening sun–
and the grayness begins to bear down
as she ponders the disease which has taken
a mind she thought was well secured
and robbed it of its house, its room of memory,
his own street’s name, his spouse’s name–
her name!–their children’s faces,
indiscriminately the minutest details
that surfaced their lives then slowly sank
to what she thought was an inviolable core.

 

Equinox

 

It is dark outside, sixteenth of April
and the stars are turning and turning,
but the equinox is weeks to come it seems.
Dolls around the house, mice and bears,
a cow and little doll boys and girls,
are seemingly mesmerized by the sound
the dryer makes late at night,
when animation’s at a standstill and cars
and trucks on the nearby highway are hushed.
Hush my sweets, your bangs are growing
sweetly into your eyes, but we will
trim them back. And your ankles
sometimes ache in your growing pains,
like my knees do when the world
suggests that you will suffer one day
before you die. And the word “die”
sends the ache up my thighs and into
my chest. There are small baskets
of varying sizes around the house;
one from Easter a few days ago casts
its handle’s arched shadow onto the yellow
wall. And the globe atop another table
goes untouched, Australia catching day
after day of sunshine and dust. It is
too much, at times, to synthesize
the desires, to subliminate the question,
to wonder how long the child’s marble
will remain misplaced beneath the wicker
chair before a chance encounter
brings to light its green translucence.