Winter 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 1 Poetry |

Forsythia

for Ted   Last spring the bushes near the street Were rumpled yellow globes of flowers, Their huge dishevelment made neat Between the Purbricks' drive and ours. Before that, twice as tall and wide, They'd smack the Nissan in the face And screech rude limbs along its side, And flat refuse to keep their place. Such zest, in spite of such neglect! Two summers back you seized the shears. The limbs that grew so long unchecked Bestrewed the ground like pliant spears, And April came, and lopped and shorn Five porcupines of stiff bare wood—Of wands and thrusting shoots forlorn—Stood tight, and bloomed as best they could In token of what might have been, Their lemon brightness all a blur Where you stood at the window then, Distraught, in anguish, sure as sure I'd never see them flower again.   I think we choose our lives. I think—Although we need not take the blame When plagues break out or trains unlink Or lightning cracks the world aflame And traps

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Ragged Sonnet

By Judith Moffett

for Ted   Last spring the bushes near the street Were rumpled yellow globes of flowers, Their huge dishevelment made neat Between the Purbricks' drive and ours. Before that, twice as […]

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