by Wendy Booydegraaff
January snow falls wet onto grass still green. I’ve
always wanted to live in a warmer climate. Michigan’s
fate is semi-tropical in thirty, forty years. The lime
tree spindles in my kitchen, its leaves are gone, and one
juicy lime hangs from a flexible branch. The ball
drops lower, lower. Once I pluck it, will it be the end?
White mold creeps up the half-inch trunk. Just a stem,
really. I spray the speckles with soapy water laced with
cayenne. These purple hours of in between—it could go
either way. Night or day? Life or death? Warm or cold?
I pull sleep like threads from an old sweater. Out
side the dark sparkles with cold flakes
and I breathe in the front yard’s maple promise
which I take to mean I have a future though the
trees only watch out for themselves. And can you
blame them? Come spring, the chainsaws march
up and down the streets, replace branches with
air and hundred-year trunks with grass.
Wendy’s fiction, poems, and essays have been included in Another Chicago Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, The /tƐmz/ Review, NOON, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Ontario, Canada, she now lives in Michigan. Twitter @BooyTweets