All winter the persistent scraping
in the cold and wind at the window
my azalea pleading
with pencil fingers with tendinous arms.
I thought to prune it out
come spring.
But now
in warm light pale purple faces
flock into bloom
massing against the glass—
a profusion
a bramble
tender and tough
determined
in this season of jubilation
desperate
after a season of mourning.
Who would dare now to check
their heaven-scented
agency?
Let them in.
Let them in.
Let them in.
Cheryl Anne LatunerCheryl Anne Latuner has published two chapbooks of poetry and a non-fiction memoir, Baby at My Breast, Reflections of a Nursing Mother. Her work has appeared in journals such as in The Comstock Review, The Naugatuck River Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, Literary Mama, Brevity, and Writing Fire: An Anthology Celebrating the Power of Women’s Words. She lives in Northampton, MA, and is at work on a second memoir—No Long Island Girl. Her website is www.cherylannelatuner.com.
