14:1: “For a Lighter Spring Carryon”, by Sarah Ann Winn

14:1: “For a Lighter Spring Carryon”, by Sarah Ann Winn
  You won’t have room for every leafless tree.
  One may represent all, especially if you
  shake it like an umbrella
  to lessen moisture before closing.

Don’t bother with the wooly mantle of snow.
Think layers. Dustings in varying thicknesses
will allow you flexibility.
Rolling conserves space, prevents wrinkles.

Pair slushy shoe puddles after they ice over,
then turn them to face each other. Stow them
in a drawstringed bag made from the waterproof new moon.
This will protect the hibernating chipmunks and squirrels.

Turn inwards the lean rows between apple trees, taking care
not to crease any paw prints, or snag on wayward twigs.
Begin with a corner of the Gemonid shower. Vacuum
packing eliminates excessive city glare. The stars
flatten into bright smears, ready for use,

when you and Demeter appear over
the horizon, each of you ready to find
your place in the newly minted sky.


Sarah Ann Winn’s poems have appeared or will appear soon in Day One, Bayou, Massachusetts Review, Quarterly West, and RHINO, among others. Recently, her piece “Field Guide to Alma Avenue and Frew Drive” was a finalist for Tupelo Quarterly’s Prose Open contest, judged by Joanna Howard. Her chapbook, Portage, was released by Sundress Publications. Find her at bluebirdwords.com or follow her @blueaisling on Twitter. She says:

“For a Lighter Spring Carryon” is inspired by my last visit to Ohio, which is where I spent my childhood. Since my MFA exam, Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay” has been knocking around in my head, especially the line “her hardest hue to hold.” In considering how impossible it really is to go home again, but also to leave, somehow Spring became conflated with the memories of place, and I wondered how that article might read in one of those breezy travel articles that dispense advice about going.



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