Under the tree, sitting
knee to knee while
randomly, snow petals
drift down between us.
‘How can we begin again?
After all, I don’t trust.
I have forgotten how, or…
maybe I never knew.’
While branches above blossom yearly
growth regardless of weather.
‘I guess the question is,
how badly do I
want to blossom?’
© Alicia Grimshaw 2017
“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.” — Carl Sandburg, from The Atlantic, March 1923.













