By Thistle Dunsmuir
I want to write about the snow drops,
blooming on the first of the year
as though oblivious
to the ache of winter.
Green stems push
through still frozen earth;
they sprout verses
from petals illuminated
by the neighbour’s Christmas lights,
and I want to write it all down.
Pen ballads for the hummingbirds,
whose wings are keepers of soft rhymes.
Write sonnets for the cormorants
who nest across the water
like prehistoric silhouettes.
I want to cradle this green world
in a nest of verses.
There are artists who paint nothing
but sky
and today, I think I could be one of them.
My tongue has run dry of pain;
I can’t decide if that means my hands
can hold less poetry
or more.
When you retire the battlefields,
they turn into meadows.
There is still space in them to run.
There will always be an ocean of sadness
inside me,
hurricanes of anger,
shattered fractals of healing;
But today, there are snow drops
pushing up through winter earth,
and there is nothing else
that I would rather write about.
Thistle Dunsmuir is a queer, non-binary poet who has made their home on the west coast of Canada. Their writing focuses on themes of identity, mental health, and healing. Their work has appeared in Vagabond City Press, and they perform regularly in their hometown of Victoria. You can follow them on Instagram at @editingbythistle.
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