To Which We Return

The fish return as the snow melts.

Every stroke upstream one step closer to death,

To the birth of those who will supplant them.

Long years in infinite space, vast waters,

Vanish to the narrow points of choked rivers,

Strangled streams.

The thin patch of water in front becomes

The only remaining horizon.

Is it the same as when they left, younger and less scarred?

Do they remember that path, these waters in any way other than

The instinctive itching under their skin?

Hard to say as they thrash against the net,

Glittering and choking, raised in offering

To the distant sun.

Some paths are harder than others

We eat and live on the backs of others’ trials. Sometimes it’s important to remember that.

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For more returns, dangerous and otherwise, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.

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Emergence

There is no magical death that ends the winter.

Flowers bloom, buds emerge

Only to be slain by sudden snow, persistent frost.

Winds that reach down and strangle the green

(Shake loose the darling buds)

Are as common as the uneasy calm of rain.

It takes no special genius, no seer

To unfurl that first green flag.

In the end, it is the queer courage

Of things that persist and persist

That rises, defiant, above the dead leaves of the year before.

Whether it is truly spring or only winter’s pause, courage rises

In spring, I am always reminded that strength is not always obvious, that the sprouting of dandelions can break cement.

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For more feats of strength, obvious and otherwise, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.