The Winter Garden Poem by Denise Antoni

The southerly birds write their algebra in the skies,
Their voices equating frost to sand.
Saharan stars span
Their wings, calibrating and cross-hatching
The multiplying miles.

Here on my meaner sum of earth,
The voices needle my head, my own crown of thorns.
Beneath, in the grass ditch, under the damson tree,
I sit on the lichened bench,
As carefully as I dare to be among the twitching horns
Of this gyrating world.

Beside me, filled with silent vibrancy,
Sits a robin. My sole companion, devoted even
Beyond the dearth of new-turned soil.
Soft umber wings enfold his once bloody breast.
My mind bleeds at his quiet humility,
The mercy of his bright, reckoning eye.

Against the sting of coming snow
My naked blood is shed from the faded russet bed
Of my derelict faith. The once bright beads of Christ
Dropping now to my empty hearth; to the ransacked nest
Of my lap; the rusted coil of my life
Likening to a forgotten rosary.

And yet, in this failing garden,
I make my daily remembrance of you.
From their dark, thorny keep the berries
Of the holly bush burn, glossing my eye;
My hands are hot with the drops of your blood
That fell on me as you died.
I have time still to work out; to keep your face
From fading in these self-serving days,
As the robin's feathers every undeserving summer
Fade amidst the poppies' noisy disguise.

Now the tiny bird flits away;
He has work that must be done
If he is to lengthen his allotted days.
But like you and I,
He will never see the southern stars, the surging sun;
We are plotted to just this fraction, this one,
Leaden portion of northern clay.

But we have our time to serve,
And these numbered days, though so much older,
Still rise. And the light, so much colder,
So soiled, so compromised, is still the Light.

As the afternoon folds down,
The skies silently unburden their soft
White-feathered load.
And he is come again, his beak
Replete with winter seeds.

Was it he that remained at Christ's side,
Easing the demon-lover of despair
From His darkening mind?

And is he now you? My one truth,
The once-only company my soul still seeks?

No matter. He is at my hand,
As loyal as love is long. Wise to the practices of life,
His eye quizzes me, and his industry
Arouses me from this fatal sleep.

I still have time to serve,
And that service need not always be cause to weep.
As the snow begins to write it geometries
Upon the blackening brackets of the trees,
The robin flies, his breast aflame against the clarion skies.
It is high time for me to rise.
For, after all, I still have this garden to keep,
And here is the frosted path that I must sweep.