Skip to content
Menu

Poetry

This winter is a bear
in my garden: it sharpens

its claws against the oak and snuffs
through topsoil to pry loose the hidden bulb.

I traced its path in window frost,
how the soft pad of its heel pressed me

like a child inside the womb
until the swift puncture of claw.

I breathed and watched the veil dissolve,
absence blooming from my mouth:

the steady exhale, no bulb
warming its blossom.

Image depends on its subscribers and supporters. Join the conversation and make a contribution today.

+ Click here to make a donation.

+ Click here to subscribe to Image.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

If you like Image, you’ll love ImageUpdate.

Subscribe to our free newsletter here: