The gardener
cognizant of thorns

bends back the bough
to cut an end

editor of stems

I see her gloves
false roses printed

on acid yellow
or fluorescent green

the dark palm laminate
in tougher stuff.

Yesterday when we walked
beneath the overpass

the mud was filling
with what the snow became

it ran and hid
beside the creek

no one was saying anything

not the birds
not you or I.

A week of heavy frosts strips
most plants bare

no inkling yet what
mess of branches

spring will become
Until then we pass

through those spaces
only winter opens.

---

Originally from Santa Fe, NM, Alba Newmann Holmes now teachs at Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania. Her poetry has appeared previously in 100 Words and the Chicago Literary Review. Follow her on Instagram @albanewholmes.