When the last forecast of snow turns to a chance
of rain and the ice on the pond breaks into ripples
and the winter bedding finally feels too heavy on our my
shared bed,
When the Fish begin to dive into starry depths
and your Ram reaches the peak of its yearly climb
and you step out into the day with a cardigan instead
of a coat,
When the bear in the hills behind our my house
wakes and startles the north-minded birds and ruins
the fresh honey hives of the too few bees, this year even
fewer,
When the grass pulls a phoenix and you hear
the first mower of the year droning, droning and your
allergies return and you call your mother to talk about your
[new] man,
When the air begins to smell less like salt
and more like perfume and the puddles in the potholes
splash instead of crack as you pass over them on your way
to work,
When you lie down in the home we he built
and I stand in our my garden waiting for the year’s first
butterfly to find the daffodil narcissus I planted for you,
for us,
I will still [redacted],
[add] or I won’t.
Zach is a fifth year senior majoring in English, History and Creative Writing and minoring in Spanish, Medieval and Renaissance Studies, and Gender Studies. After graduation in May he will be applying to MFA programs for Poetry or Fiction. In an ideal world, he would spend every day traveling, telling stories, and making art and hopes that he can base his future life around that ideal.
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