To Begin the First Week of Spring, 2018
Since the first green sprigs of grass, those that taste sweet as so many past memories do, rush back to me from years long gone, but now somehow linger as I grind their newness gently between my upper & lower molars, arriving as they have from the nether world of winter. I do not wish any small moment of such a sweet taste to escape notice, recognition, & my wakefulness. These few short blades bring to mind wildflowers that are still weeks & months away & beneath the earth, yes, so hopelessly distant as knee-high thistles, summer's annoyances we’ll find in the fields soon, those ready-made stick-tights designed to travel as far as one is willing to carry them on frayed trouser legs. But all that is remote now & in some future tense, far away as those troubles we foresee that’ll arrive months from now. Why, on this morning that is so full of renewed promise, do regrets always seem to creep in, cat-like, begging, rubbing themselves between my legs & against my ankles, pleading to be noticed, pleading to be picked up & held closely where my blood bounds, notwithstanding what this week's forecast may well foretell about any future we may or may not be afforded.
Walking into an ashen, pre-dawn fog, the color of an over-stewed hen that's sat too long in its own stew in the pot, I stroll beneath the venerable eucalyptus tree along the river bank that calls to me with its bittersweet scent, & now I begin to understand how I haven't courage enough to look my life squarely in the face for all I'm able to see are the tree’s pitifully shallow roots exposed, snaking off toward the stream’s edge then disappearing into that dank, dreamt-of Other Place beneath & God- knows-where-under, the certain & oh, so venerable roots that run away & are ultimately as delicate as a grandmother's spidery veins lying just beneath her tissue- paper skin the likes of which sing still those old-time, church hymns for the opening up of the morning sky in another one of those shy, those blushing & cold, early-in-May days.
Terry Savoie has had more than four hundred poems published in the past forty year in such venues as Poetry (Chicago), American Poetry Review, America, American Journal of Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Sonora Review, The Iowa Review and North American Review.