We have certainly experienced such mild winters as this one (so far) since we moved to West Cavan seventeen years ago. I do remember a Christmas Eve dressed in just a light pant suit with a scarf at my throat, not needing gloves. But it is also very dry, instead of wet, too. And I like to record these observations, that some Januarys are full of frost, ice and snow. Others see the snowdrops six weeks early in raised beds and other bulbs popping up.
Blooming in Winter
The azalea in bud on Stephen's Day
bloomed one single blossom the day she died.
I remember a January day
nearly forty years gone, seeing roses
in Victoria Park, Hackney, London,
blooming despite what felt like bitter
damp and cold, bone soaking and searing all
simultaneously, a mystical
wonder, or wonder of some sort, some kind.
There in a two-faced month of dark and cold
that bulbs would peep out and there are some bold
enough to bloom early, pioneer plants
at the vanguard, with a differant
narrative. They wear lanyards spelling hope.
Nothing can be completely done or dead.
Some bloom early and others late, wither,
die back, return. We each find our own thread.
See the length stretch out. Await the scissors
or harvest scythe. The cut. The gathered fruit.
The miracle there will be blooms again.
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