Across the field this morning,
shoots of blue toad flax
bend their slender necks in the wind.
In the vernal pool alongside the road,
leopard frogs venture toward the sun.
The air is purpled with birch pollen squandered
on the chance of encountering
some unimagined flower.

Last winter
all my endeavors died with you.
The snow came—welcome—
it muffled the road.

But now Grace shimmers
in the pertinacious flax,
the faces of the frogs,
the birches’ indiscriminate dust,

as if it had been always
our invisible companion,
watching over our deep sleep
and whispering us to light.


poem by Laura Bonazzoli

Laura Bonazzoli’s poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines, including Connecticut River Review, Northern New England Review (forthcoming), and Reed Magazine; has been selected for Maine Public Radio’s Poems from Here; and has been anthologized. She has also published short stories and essays. A freelance writer and editor based in Midcoast Maine, she is online at